Skin Deep
by channelingadler
Summary: Sherlock and John stumble upon an odd string of murders unlike any they've solved before. When the only survivor is willing to help, Sherlock uncovers a secret that reveals she's not exactly what she seems. Will she do what it takes to stop these murders? Or is she only a distraction? Sherlock/OC
1. Introduction

The sun filtered through the windows of 221B, creating iridescent stripes across the otherwise dark apartment. Slouched into the armchair, blinded by one such stripe, Dr. Watson began to stir. He squinted his eyes and turned his head away at the unwelcome brightness, blinking away the drowsiness and reaching around him to silence the brutal ringing of his cellphone.

"Watson," he said impatiently once the receiver reached his earlobe.

"Five minutes."

John rolled his eyes and over exaggerated a sigh, "Why didn't you text? You love the texting."

"You weren't responding. Four minutes."

The call switched off and John fumbled with the keys on his phone. He scrolled through five text messages sent within the last five minutes. He decided they were a countdown, and they were all sent by his eccentric flatmate that he had lovingly tagged "Idiot Savant" in his contacts list.

He shrugged his shoulders, made it off the couch, and traveled the short distance into the cluttered kitchen. No tea, and it seemed as though Mrs. Hudson hadn't been up with any breakfast. _Not that she should_, Watson thought to himself, _she's not our housekeeper_.

Within three minutes he was out on the street heading toward St. Bartholomew's, wishing that his flatmate was more in the tea brewing business than the crime solving business. The streets were fairly quiet since it was only about 6 a.m. and the morning traffic had yet to kick up. Watson stopped when he reached the corner of Baker Street and relented. Taking a left instead of his intended right, he walked briskly in the direction of scones and coffee. He smirked. Today he was feeling particularly rebellious.


	2. Chapter 1

At a little over half past six, Watson tumbled in through the glass doors of St. Bart's and saw the familiar ponytail of Molly Hooper over a stack of paperwork.

"'Good Morning. Coffee?" Watson tilted the tray of beverages he was holding towards the girl as she turned to face him.

"…Oh. Oh, yes! Thank you, John." She picked up a small cup gingerly, offered Watson a smile, and peered back out through the glass. "He's been waiting for you."

"Yeah, apparently. Scone?"

She shook her head to decline without moving her eyes away from the figure in the next room. She slowly started to sip her coffee, forgetting John's presence.

"Right well, best I see him, then."

"Best."

Watson walked through the next set of doors and headed toward a hunched figure at the long, white table.

"You're late." Sherlock stated, an edge of irritation to his voice.

"Am I? Is it possible to be late to an engagement I didn't even know I had?" John eyed Sherlock innocently.

"I told you I was coming here last night. I thought it was implied that you were expected to join me."

"Well I would have if you had decided to wake me up in person, instead of by phone."

"I had other things to do," Holmes sighed impatiently and looked away from the telescope. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with two long slender fingers and said softly, "Could you make her stop staring? It's distracting."

Watson looked back toward Molly and at his movement she shifted her gaze down to her coffee.

"You called her here. The least you could do is give her a chat."

Sherlock snapped his head at Watson, "I had to get in, she understands that. I hardly believe that makes us best friends."

Watson held out a cup of coffee, "Oh Sherlock," he said with a chuckle, "she's looking for so much more."

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly in horror and he looked past Watson into the next room. Once their gaze met, Molly smiled and a pink hue came upon her cheeks. Sherlock took the coffee and sighed, pushing his chair away from the desk.

"It doesn't matter. I'm not getting anywhere. Whatever it is, it's not showing up in the blood. Why?"

He tapped his fingers against the coffee cup. "Why?" He asked again, more aggressively.

"Three deaths. All of them women. All of them in their early to mid twenties."

"All of them sunburned," Watson chimed in, taking a bite of his scone. "Tan enthusiasts?"

"Sunburned. In the middle of February."

"Mid-winter holiday?"

"Mild cases of Hypothermia."

"Arctic holiday, then."

"And what kind of holiday ends with a bullet through their brain?"

John pondered this slightly before replying, "A shoddy one, at best."

"Why?!" Sherlock stood abruptly, grabbing his long coat off the back of the chair and walking towards the door. On the other side of the glass, Molly jumped up and opened the door to let them through.

"Progress?" She squeaked.

He looked at her and continued through the door without a break in his brisk pace.

"It's early," Watson apologized, following him. "He's not really very charming first thing in the morning."

"Right." Molly said, nodding her head at Watson.

"Well, to be honest, he's not really ever very charming."

"Doesn't have to be." Molly's response was barely audible as she disappeared into the lab.


	3. Chapter 2

"You know, you can be a real ass to people, whether you want to acknowledge it or not."

Sherlock smiled as Watson reprimanded him, the two of them walking back towards the flat on Baker Street. He took out a few scraps of paper from his coat pocket, shuffling them around in his hands.

"I'm not thinking clearly," he muttered. "I should get something to eat."

"I offered you a scone," Watson said. "You don't eat when you work—"

"I'm clearly not getting anywhere, so obviously I'm not working." Sherlock grinned hysterically and John almost gasped in horror. "What do you say, John? I'm feeling a bit peckish."

They hailed a cab and arrived in front of a small coffee shop wedged between shops on a busy street. Sherlock walked in and John was overwhelmed by the activity. They found a miniscule table behind an sagging couch that was strained with six or seven chaps, all with computers in their laps and headphones stuck to their ears. John guessed they were playing some online game, looking up only to reach for a latte or a congratulatory fist-bump.

"This is interesting," John said cheerily to Sherlock. "Not a place I'd expect you to inhabit."

"Well, John, I'm full of surprises." Sherlock removed the scraps of paper from his jacket pocket once again and laid them out on the table. He placed his head between his hands and stared at them as John tilted his head expectantly.

"Are you really trying to think in this place?" John asked loudly, over the din of the cafe.

"Couldn't think in silence," Sherlock said without looking up. "Maybe the noise will trigger something."

They sat this way for a few minutes when a young woman approached them, carrying three enormous bags. She smiled as she tried to wedge past them when one of the bags swiped the tiny table top and took the scraps of paper to the floor. Realizing what she'd done, she stopped and turned around quickly, swinging the bags with her only to have one of them hit Sherlock square in the chest.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! Sorry, wait just a second, I'll get them for you!"

John couldn't restrain the laugh he was holding watching the spectacle before him.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, "Could you please!?"

"Sorry, I think it's better if I sit this one out."

"No, really," the girl pleaded, "I'll get them for you, just one second."

She stacked the enormous totes beside John and attempted to get the wisps of paper while Sherlock threw up his arms and sat back in his chair. The small space surrounding the table left little movement to be possible. Finally she managed to pick up all three pieces, but before placing them back on the table, she took a look through them. At this, Sherlock's eyebrows shot up and he snatched the papers right out of her hands.

"Enough! Away." Sherlock batted her away from the table.

"Excuse me?" The girl stared at him for a beat and then turned her attention to Watson. "Is he for real? I said I was sorry."

"It'll take more than that," John chuckled and reached out his hand, "My name is John Watson. This is my good friend _and colleague_, Sherlock Holmes."

The girl smiled pleasantly and took his hand, "My name is Posy, and really, I'm sorry for the disruption." She turned her attention back to Sherlock. "Could I buy you a coffee or something? For the trouble I caused here?"

"No," Sherlock drawled. "You've done enough." He raised his eyes to hers. "Good day."

Posy shrugged with a small smile playing at the edges of her lips. "Could I just ask you one question? Sher-lock." She said his name slowly, enunciating each syllable.

"I can't wait to see this." John said quietly.

"No." Sherlock said, looking back at his papers.

"Seriously?" She said incredulously. She turned back to John. "Is he serious?"

"He's a very serious person."

"One question. I'm curious. You can't hate on someone for being curious, yeah?"

At this Sherlock let out a sigh and looked up at her slowly. He piled the papers together and flipped them over on the table.

"Fine."

"How dramatic," she mused. "OK. Would you like to take _my_ photo too?"

"What?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"What?" John spit out before he could control himself.

"Well, I'm your type right?" She tossed her hair and smiled, "A lady, young, long hair, _freckles_."

Both men looked at her as if she had two heads.

"Oh please, I'm just joking. But I mean, if you're that obsessed with a certain look, it's not completely out of turn for me to ask."

"Freckles?" Sherlock asked and looked back down at the photos in his hands.

"You know, dark specks on the skin." She pointed at her cheeks, "I got 'em. Deb and those other girls all had them, too. Anyway." She shook her head and then went for her bags, while John snatched the photos out of Sherlock's hand.

"Freckles." Sherlock repeated staring into space. "They all have freckles."

"Well, see ya Mr. John and good luck with your stalking, Mr. Sherlock."

"Do you think it matters?" John asked, "It could just be a coincidence for all we know."

"Too specific to be a coincidence, John. That's a connection—the _only_ one we've made so far. Maybe a fetish, or a common gene pool."

"You know lots of people have them. Actually I think everyone does, it's just a matter of—"

"Could be from the tanning," John contributed.

"No, they were sunburned, not tanned. This is something else."

"Obviously. Don't know a lot of red heads that tan. See you around—" Posy took a few steps back where she came, "—_crazies_."

Both John and Sherlock whipped their heads toward Posy.

"What did you say?" Sherlock asked, intrigued.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. You're just too bizarre." She shrugged apologetically.

"What? No, about red hair?"

"Oh. Red heads, natural ones. I don't imagine they'd go out of their way for a tan." She dropped the totes back onto the floor, "Takes a lot of time and effort. I'm just pale and I can't be bothered. I just end up turning pink."

"Why does this matter?"

"I don't know."

"Why did you mention it?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"Making conversation? Subconscious impulse to always have the last word?"

"She's impossible," Sherlock said to John.

"Hey!"

"How do you know they all have red hair? This girl here," John motioned to one of the portraits he was holding, "her hair is dark. And this one," he continued gently, "it's grayscale. She looks blonde."

"This girl has red hair," Posy pulled out the remaining girl and placed her beside the other two. Pointing to the one with dark hair she said, "This girl has a terrible dye job. Look, here eyebrows don't even match. And the last girl," she smiled. "Is my neighbor, Deb."

"Your neighbor that was found dead last night?" Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

A look of panic and horror crossed Posy's face. "What?" She looked over at John, then back to Sherlock, taking a step back. Her eyes darted between the both of them.

"You didn't know?" John said calmly.

Posy shook her head. "Is this a joke? Is this some kind of sick joke? Did Deb put you up to this?"

Sherlock snatched the three portraits and deposited them back into his pocket. "I'm sorry. No. _Deb _was found dead last night. The police haven't informed you?"

Posy shook her head and sat on the pile of totes she had just put down. "No. We weren't close. I haven't been home for a couple days. Oh my God. Deb."

"If you knew this was your neighbor, why didn't you ask me about her before?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, Deb models. And dates her photographers often. Could be you were dating or had dated. I mean, I thought you were looking at proofs. I didn't really think you were a stalker. Oh my God, are you a stalker?"

A few of the young men on the couch beside them looked over.

"No." The impatience was noticeable in Sherlock's tone.

"He's not a stalker," John reassured her. "We're investigating these deaths."

"You're the police?" Posy asked. "You don't look like the police."

"We're not the police. I'm Sherlock Holmes, and I'm going to solve the mystery of your neighbor's death."


	4. Chapter 3

They walked into the small house as Posy dropped her bags in the corner of the living room. The house smelled like clean linen and vanilla and reminded John of Sarah's flat. He began to wonder why their apartment never smelled this nice. Probably the absence of a female outside of Mrs. Hudson was the reason. Or perhaps a lack of human body parts in the refrigerator.

"This is nice of you Posy, to let us come over like this."

"No problem, John." She threw her coat over a nearby chair and turned around. Her home was tiny but comfortable. Soft, mix-matched couches took up the perimeter of the room with a small fireplace in the center. Books littered shelves as well as trinkets finished in bright glossy finishes or shiny metallics. The colors were a mix of both warm and cool. It looked like new things got mixed in with the old and everything found a home throughout the space. John could see through to the kitchen outside the living room, the colors and patterns floating through into a few more doorways off this space.

Posy immediately spotted Sherlock at her mantle, looking over her photographs and things, reaching out to touch the objects she had laid about. She arched an eyebrow at his demeanor. "Make yourself comfortable."

"I hope he's not intruding," John said quickly.

"Not at all. Tea? Or something stronger? I'm going for something stronger."

"Nothing for me please, thank you." John looked over at the figure fiddling with Posy's books. "Sherlock?" Sherlock looked up as if he were being interrupted and waved his hand.

"Really strong," Posy muttered as she disappeared through the doorway into the kitchen.

"Hm." Sherlock muttered. "Books on art, design, spiritual myths. Then Ayn Rand. Instruction manuals for kitchen appliances."

"Just things, Sherlock. Maybe you should stop padding through other people's possessions. Or do you think she's the murderer. Can't stand to have any other women within a five mile radius that resemble her."

"They don't look like her."

"Well, you have to admit they're all very similar—"

"No." Sherlock looked up and met John's eyes. John looked back, confused.

"Alright."

"Ah!" Sherlock exclaimed, holding up a pair of glasses. "Roommates. Or, no, boyfriend?" Sherlock picked up an Xbox controller that was on top of a Harlequin Romance novel. He then moved a man's shirt that was under a throw and held it up, inspecting it. "Perhaps husband?"

"Oh, you do laundry, too?" Posy came back into the room with a tumbler half filled with an amber liquid. Sherlock put down the shirt and glared at her glass.

"A little early for," he sniffed the air, "Amaretto?"

"Oh, very good!" she said excitedly, "What else can you tell me, mystery man?"

"Well," Sherlock smirked at the invitation. "You're an artist of sorts, painter maybe, but also digital art, probably graphic design," she nodded and he continued, "likely unmarried. Or in a frustrated relationship due to your attention to romance novels and makeup. Which is interesting since you went out today without wearing any makeup so you probably weren't planning on running into anyone. Although, maybe that's because you knew _he_ wouldn't be around. Men's shirt. Boyfriend. Could be a friend, but your perfume is on his shirt so I'm thinking definitely boyfriend. Brought along his Xbox, his war games, his capitalist literature."

Posy stared at him for a beat and then let out a barking laugh. She steadied herself on the small table beside her and put the glass down. She double over, shaking her hands, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. "No, please, no," she gasped, "continue."

"I'm not right?"

"Seems not. Posy, could I use your bathroom please?" John asked, delighted at seeing Sherlock experience the equivalent of falling on his ass.

"Down past the kitchen to the left. Please, Sherlock, I'm intrigued, more please."

"Alright." Sherlock said indignantly as John left the room. "You like to pretend you're a free spirit with all the colors and your outfits, but it's a lie. You suffer anxiety issues. You crave stability and are a creature of routine."

"Right," she smiled, "because of my amaretto."

"No," he smiled back, "because of your cuticles. They're torn to shreds. There's the circles under your eyes, meaning you don't get that much sleep and when you do it's fretted. So maybe you try relaxation techniques—the sound machine you use to help block out unpleasant thoughts. Looks like the ocean is your favorite, the button is worn clean. And then there's the abundance of candles. Trying to create an oasis, trying to calm you down. Your anxiety isn't just about big problems, it's everything. You try to mask it by creating relationships with people, but it's a lot of work, isn't it Posy? Or should I say, Persephone. That's your name, isn't it?"

The smile faded from her face and she picked the glass back up again. "Well, two out of three!" She took a long sip and placed the glass back down on the table, walking towards Sherlock. "But you were wrong about my boyfriend. Try again." Her eyes were steely and she stared into his, unblinking. She stopped until she was inches away from his face.

"Husband, then. That was my second guess, you don't wear a ring, but whoever he is, he's familiar. You've left a bag of makeup and tampons sitting on that end table there. Looks to be a man's wallet hidden underneath it."

"Oh," Posy frowned. "Sorry. Wrong again." Sherlock tilted his head while Posy whispered, "No boyfriend, Sherlock. Or husband. Just me."

"Right. Not like any of this matters anyway." He walked to the other side of the room, sitting on the couch. John walked in a moment later and joined his friend.

"So? Did he get it right?"

"Kind of," Posy motioned to Sherlock and brought her glass back with her to sit across from the two men. "I know we're here to talk about Deb, but just so Sherlock here doesn't lose sleep later, maybe we'll straighten me out before we continue."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"My name is _Persephone_ Taylor. Point Sherlock. Posy is my nickname. I'm a _creative_, which is the new-agey term we use around here to refer to artists who pick up other traits so that they can pay the bills. I draw and paint, but often find myself designing or doing video work for a living. This neighborhood has a lot of people like me. Musicians, sculptors, writers, photographers. The cost of living is cheap, but the people are good.

"I do suffer from anxiety, how nice for you to point that out. It's not debilitating but it can be if I don't force myself to deal with it. One thing about anxiety is that I find it's best if I keep busy. So as much as I love art, I don't love being a one-trick pony. I like to dabble. I'm a capitalist, I like to shoot up aliens on the Xbox, I've been trying to learn to like beer, and when I'm home by myself for the day I sometimes like to hang out in that shirt," she pointed to the man's shirt Sherlock left on the other side of the room.

"That means there's no boyfriend. Just me, pathetically wearing a man's shirt as if I did have one because it makes me feel better and they are damn comfortable." She took a sip of her drink and then rolled the ice around. "The wallet. The wallet I found in my backyard. I don't know who it belongs to but I figure they'll show up again and this way I can hand it back to them while kindly reminding them to stay off my property."

She smiled and finished her drink. Sherlock yawned and John kept looking between him and Posy.

"So sorry to put you to sleep, Sherlock. So, what happened to Deb?"


	5. Chapter 4

"Well that was almost a complete waste of time." Sherlock threw himself on the couch in 221B and rested his chin on his steepled fingers. "We have a connection but barely anything else and now I have to work through getting all this useless information out of my mind palace."

"I had fun," John said from the kitchen, looking through the cabinets for something—anything—to brew in hot water.

"Fun? How was any of that fun? All she did was talk about useless details. And then the information on Deb was worse. Who cares that she just bought a pet iguana named Paul. And then the gall, to seriously ask, if either one of us wanted to care for it? An iguana named Paul?"

"You wanted information. What did you expect to hear from a neighbor? Her medical records or recent bank transactions?"

"Shut up, John, I'm thinking."

John shook his head and headed back to his chair when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door.

"Hello boys," she greeted warmly. "I brought you some groceries. I'm not sure of what you needed but I really didn't want to open the refrigerator after the scare last week."

"Oh Mrs. Hudson, you're gorgeous," John took the bag from her hands. "And again, I'm so sorry. I had a chat with Sherlock and that should never happen again," he whispered to his favorite land lady. She nodded and turned to leave. The minute Mrs. Hudson left the door, a familiar chime was heard from Sherlock's coat.

"When?" Sherlock was on his feet in less than a second with the phone to his ear. "What?" He looked at John. "Check your phone, John."

John Watson took his cell phone out of his pocket and his furrowed his brow.

"Yes, we'll be there immediately."

Sherlock walked straight through the door with Watson at his heels. Once they reached the street, John hailed a cab and Sherlock sifted through his messages.

"You got the address?" Sherlock asked quickly.

"Yes. And you're not going to believe this."

The cab arrived and they angled inside. John gave the driver the address Lestrade had texted him, and Sherlock looked over in amazement. Neither one said a word during the remainder of the drive.

Once at the crime scene, Lestrade ran out to them through a mess of police cars and ambulances. "It could have been a lot worse."

"Another victim?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly.

"Yes. But a survivor. We're not sure it's associated with the previous attacks except that we linked one of the other victims on this street, and apparently she knows her."

"She's alive? Where is she?" John asked quickly.

"Back through the house. She needs care immediately. Sherlock, she asked for you specifically."

The men made it through the small house they had occupied a little over an hour before. As they made it through a web of police officers, they reached the bathroom that had been roped off. Inside they saw one of the medics crouched over a small figure that was lying on the tile floor, on a sprawling puddle of blood.

John rushed over first, immediately assuming the role of doctor as he asked questions and prodded over her body. As Sherlock approached, he noticed the paleness of her skin and the control she was holding onto, even though he could see the raw terror in her eyes.

"Persephone, what happened here?" He asked as he crouched down beside her.

"Cut to the chase," she smiled briefly, and then took a deep breath. "I thought you had lied to me, I didn't think you were actually a detective. How bad is it? Is it bad? I can't look." She closed her eyes in pain and sucked in air.

"You're fine," Sherlock stated flatly. "Now did you see who did this?"

"Sherlock!" John looked up from her wound. "Now is hardly the time! She's been shot."

"Right," Sherlock looked uncomfortable.

"I remember," Posy's eyes were losing focus slightly. "I remember. Tall, but thin. So thin. Thinner than you."

"Male?"

"Yes, sorry, yes. Oh my God, this hurts a lot. Wow." Posy looked at Sherlock, clenching her jaw and releasing, attempting to find some relief for the pain.

"Why don't I ask the questions and you just answer as best you can, OK?" Sherlock said slowly. "We know he's male, tall, and thin. He's not anyone you knew then?"

"No."

"Caucasian?"

"Yes."

"Was he wearing a uniform or some kind of attire that stood out?"

"No. Yes? I can't remember. It's all blurring together." She blinked rapidly and looked over at John who was busying himself with putting her back together again.

"We're taking her to the hospital now. The bullet missed anything of importance but is still well in there. She's losing blood too quickly and there's a chance of internal bleeding." John said to Sherlock in a tone that meant strictly business. He turned to Posy and his eyes softened, "You're very lucky. You're going to be fine. We have to move you onto the stretcher and it is going to be uncomfortable."

"I haven't finished—" Sherlock objected.

"She's leaving." John said sternly and turned to go.

"Give me your phone," Posy said rapidly, "Your cell phone, Sherlock."

"Why? No."

"I can dictate what I remember into your phone, just turn it on and put it in my pocket," she was becoming breathless.

The medics were approaching with the stretcher as she attempted to push herself up on her elbows. "Mine is too far away. In case I don't—" her voice broke slightly, "In case I don't _remember_, at least you'll have something."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. He punched a few keys on his phone and slipped it into the pocket of her jacket. "Don't touch it, don't answer it, don't even act like you have it. I'll come back for it immediately."

She smiled weakly as the medics picked her up and pulled her onto the stretcher and hauled her away.

"It could be better." John said as he joined up with Sherlock.

"She could be dead." Sherlock said morbidly. "She took my phone. And I gave it to her."

"What? Why did you give her your phone?"

"To dictate what she remembers about the murderer. I _gave_ it to her." Sherlock shot a pained look to John who just shrugged his shoulders. "I don't trust her." Sherlock said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I just gave someone I don't trust my phone."

"It's not too far, Sherlock. I'm sure you'll be acquainted with it within the hour."

True to John's word, they found themselves outside Posy's hospital room with minutes to spare. They were waiting for the doctor to give them the all clear and to Sherlock's relief—though he wasn't one to admit it—he was glad to hear that the girl was alive and recovering.

Thoughts were rabid in Sherlock's mind. The attacker didn't waste any time in coming after the girl, he must have been watching. But although she lived close to a previous victim, Sherlock didn't believe that he meant to have a connection to her at all. Which means the killer must have been on the street when they visited Persephone's house earlier in the day. If he thought he had been compromised it was only because he thought Persephone had said something of importance to them. The realization hit him instantly that the killer had to recognize John and himself. There was no other possibility as to why he would have panicked and attempted to kill the girl.

But then, there was another thought that was nagging at his mind: Why didn't he succeed? Although it was better that she had survived, why would someone who successfully killed off three other victims have missed with her? She didn't have any special survival skills, no formal self defense training that he could tell of. He hoped the answer was on his cell phone, that the mindless act hadn't been a total lapse of judgement on his part, and that a jewel of information was stuck on his favorite device. Along with whatever tracking or bugging software she had added, obviously.

When the doctor told them they were clear to see her he wasn't paying attention and it took the jabbing of John's elbow to his ribcage to bring him to reality.

"We have probably ten minutes, Sherlock. Then she'll probably pass out from all the painkillers and the exhaustion."

"Right, let's get my mobile back."

He hadn't known her long, but the transformation between the girl at the coffee shop and the girl in the bed was still tremendous. The humor in her face was gone and she was clearly drawn out and spent on the drugs pumped into her system. Her face was sallow and her eyes were glazed over and half open. Whether she recognized them or not when they entered he couldn't tell, except for her frail fingers that pointed to the chair beside her.

"In the pocket," she murmured.

Sherlock moved quickly and fished his phone out of her pocket. It was still running. He closed the app, did a quick scan for anything unfamiliar, and pocketed the device.

"How are you feeling?" John asked her softly, taking her hand.

She smiled up at him feebly, and then moved her gaze over to Sherlock. "It was a good thing," she continued, "I don't remember half of what I said now." She motioned to the I.V. in her arm. "Stuff makes you forget everything."

"Let's hope there's something here of importance then." Sherlock tapped at his pocket while he spoke.

"I thought you had come back, so I didn't bother checking at the door. Must have been less than five minutes from when you left."

"Doesn't matter now, it's over," John reassured her. Sherlock saw him give her hand a squeeze. He didn't particularly care for it.

"Is it the same guy who killed Deb?"

"No way to know yet." Sherlock answered her as he paced around the room. Her soft voice was grating on him.

"He's going to come back for me, then. They didn't catch him."

"You're safe." John looked over at Sherlock. "She's safe now, right, Sherlock?"

"Well," Sherlock looked around the room and let his eyes settle over her, "potentially. But she's got a point. The killer can't be happy she survived and that the police got to her." John widened his eyes at him. "But...he knows it's too risky to strike again. Too many eyes watching. You'll be fine. John, I think we should be off."

"The hospital has my number, you can reach me if you have any questions." John let go of her hand and placed his hand on her forehead. "Rest."

"Cut to the chase," she whispered, willing her heavy eyes to stay open. "He told me, he said, 'cut to the chase.'"

_**Authors Note:**__ Thanks for all the follows and sweet comments. I know this is taking a while to pick up, but I'm really trying to develop the characters a bit so that the story doesn't seem so flat. The idea here is cliche, I know, but I'm hoping to breathe some new life into it. Thanks again, and reviews definitely welcome!_


	6. Chapter 5

Sherlock had transferred the dictation to his computer and had listened to it upwards twenty times. Most of it was rubbish. A lot of heavy breathing and medics scolding her to keep quiet, a lot of equipment buzzing and beeping. But throughout all of it, there was a fairly decent description of the attacker. And the more Sherlock thought about it the more he was certain this was the same man linked with the other attacks. The one thing he could not figure out, however, was how she had escaped him. Her being alive was troubling him, and it gave him cause to suspect she was involved somehow.

John came into the flat and dropped a pile of mail on the table beside him.

"She gets out today. Did you want to pay a visit?"

Sherlock pretended he didn't hear him. He continued to stare at his computer screen with the headphones on his head and took out his phone. He typed into it quickly and a chirp was heard in John's pocket.

John removed his mobile, took a look at the message, and raised his hands.

"I'm in the same room as you, you bloody idiot. You don't have to text me."

The long, nimble fingers danced across the surface of the device and another chirp was heard.

"I'M THE CHILD?" John dropped his phone onto the table beside the stack of mail and removed his coat. "Could have been anyone. I could have roomed with anyone and I get him. The genius who solves murder cases and doesn't grasp the basics of social interaction."

John sat across from Sherlock and stared the back of his laptop.

"I'm going. Traumatic stuff getting shot by a potential serial killer. Just trying to be a decent person."

"Fine," Sherlock exhaled. He took off the headphones and dragged himself off the couch. "She's not right, you know. She's hiding something."

"Oh yeah? And what would that be? The identity of the man who shot her? Oh sorry," John continued sarcastically, "That's right, she gave us a detailed description of him. Oh and that's right, if she was behind all this, she probably wouldn't have been the one shot."

"Are you going to be like this all day?" Sherlock spat at him. "What's the matter with you."

John narrowed his eyes briefly and then slumped back in his seat. "It's Tania. Haven't heard from her in a while."

"Oh please. How do you deal with all these insignificant thoughts fluttering around your mind all day, creating all these little moods? We have a case here, John, in case you haven't noticed. Your petty relationships are not important."

"Right. And when was the last time you had a relationship then, hm, Sherlock? The last time a woman—or a man—took up an ounce of space within that brilliant mind of yours?"

"I don't have time for this. I thought you were going to her house." Sherlock said dryly.

"That's right," John got up and took hold of his coat once again.

"Well she won't be there." Sherlock moved and took hold of his jacket. He quickly tied his scarf while waiting for John to reply.

"And why is that? Of course she'll be home, she was just released from the hospital."

"And she was in the hospital from being shot, point blank, in her own home. She's terrified. She'll be at the coffee shop."

John shook his head in defiance. "This is where you're wrong. The amount of pain she'll be in, she won't manage sitting up. Scared or not, she'll be home."

"Oh I wish I could say I admire your spirit," Sherlock drawled. He and John made it down the stairs and hailed a cab. Sherlock gave the driver an address and within ten minutes they were parked in front of the coffee shop they visited the day prior.

It was just as loud and crowded as it had been the last time they were there. The small table they had originally sat at was occupied and the only seating available were single cushions that were littered among the floor. Sherlock waded through the mass of people and thundering music and just before he began to doubt his conclusion he spotted her.

Posy was leaning on a few piled cushions with her legs outstretched, a tall coffee mug in her hand. Across from her was a young man, and they were talking. Although a smile appeared on her face, Sherlock could tell that their conversation was serious. Her discomfort was apparent, and he saw her shift from each side, sliding lower into the cushions, attempting to keep her pain masked from the man she was speaking with.

"John, would you mind fetching me a coffee? Black, two—"

"Sugars. Yes. Are you going to go up to her or just lurk about until I get back?"

"Not sure yet. You'll find me either way."

Before deciding on which approach to take, the decision was made for him. Posy saw him first, her face brightening considerably as she put her coffee down to wave him over. The man with her turned around to face him as well, obvious dissatisfaction on his face at the arrival of someone else. Sherlock smiled brightly and approached them both.

"What are you doing here?" Posy asked first, a slight slur to her words, probably due to the painkillers she was on.

"Needed a coffee, in the area. I quite like this place, lots of energy." Sherlock drawled as he turned to the man and offered his hand. "Sherlock Holmes, pleased to meet you."

"Clay." The man said gruffly as he took Sherlock's hand and offered a stiff handshake.

"Right, sorry," Posy interjected. "Sherlock this is Clay. We've seen each other around here before but he was a friend of Deb's and heard about what happened."

"Right horrible." Clay said, his eyes locked on Sherlock. "This is s'posed to be a peaceful place. And now," he turned to Posy with chagrin, "heard Posy here got shot up something awful. Police ain't doing nuthin."

"I'm sure they're trying their best." Sherlock's patience was beginning to run thin. "If you wouldn't mind, Clay, I had a few things to ask Persephone and would appreciate some privacy."

"Huh," Clay moved his head back and sized up Sherlock. "Alright, thas' alright with you, Posy?"

"Just fine, thank you for coming over." She smiled warmly at him as he put a hand on her shoulder. Sherlock could tell the action caused her injury pain, but her smile stayed in place.

"I'll give you a call then, be by sometime tomorrow, yeah?"

"Sounds great." She nodded as Clay gave Sherlock one last look and was lost in the crowd.

"Well he's a proper gentlemen," Sherlock said sarcastically, taking the empty seat across from Posy. "How exactly did he know who you were and your association with Deb?"

"I guess he's from the neighborhood," she said, visibly relaxing and letting out an exhale.

"Why are you here? You're recovering." Sherlock's voice had an edge, but his features were soft.

"I couldn't go back there. At least not right away. I'm fine, it's just sore. I'm on the medication they sent and I'm just a little off, but nothing too unpleasant."

John joined them and handed Sherlock a coffee before pulling up a cushion.

"How are you?" He said to Posy, taking the coffee out of her hands. "You shouldn't be here, holding anything, sitting up."

"I'm sorry doctor," Posy's smile returned as she leaned further back into the pillows. "I'm not going to be able to afford your coffee-house-call rate, you know."

John smiled, "On the house. So how have you been? Sherlock mentioned you wouldn't want to go back home."

At this, Posy raised her eyebrows and shot Sherlock a quizzical look. "Oh did he now? Not just in the area then, looking for a cup of coffee?"

"Persephone has a new friend, John." Sherlock added, changing the subject. "Mister Clay. He's quite a conversationalist. Has taken Deb's death and Persephone's injury quite to heart. Will be meeting her tomorrow at her house."

"Hey now," she said defensively. "It's not for me, it's for Paul."

"Paul?" Sherlock asked.

"The iguana, I believe." John retorted while taking a sip of his coffee.

"Yes, exactly," Posy responded. "Clay works at the reptile shop down the street. Probably how he knows Deb. I hate reptiles," she visibly shuddered, "and although I didn't know Deb that well, I still don't want to leave the thing abandoned. So Clay offered to pick him up and watch over him until someone else wants him."

"And you're fine with letting an otherwise complete stranger into your house after you've been shot and are a bit foggy on who the shooter is?"

"I can't stop living my life. If he was looking to kill me, would he really have to use an excuse like Deb's igunana? Oh, crap." Posy clutched her side and took a sharp inhale.

"Alright, time for bed," Watson chided.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. Besides, we have too much to talk about, right? That's why you're here, Sherlock?"

"A few questions, at most. Won't take too much time. Oh John, stop it," he said cutting his eyes to his friend who was clearly protesting. "She's made it this far, I'm sure a few more minutes won't kill her. Speaking of, how was it that you escaped the poised gunman?"

"Poised?" Posy turned to her side and rested on her elbow. "I wouldn't call him poised exactly. He was kind of clumsy, to be honest."

"You described what he looked like, but tell me exactly what happened, just as you remember it?"

"OK," Posy took a moment to collect her thoughts and her face grew a bit darker. "You had left and a few minutes later I heard a knock on the door. I opened it and the guy was there. I didn't check to see who it was because I honestly thought it was you with some other comment or question or whatever. He was kind of _off_, I remember thinking there was something wrong with him and he asked to use my bathroom." She let out a sigh, and shifted her weight again.

"That should have probably been a red flag, you know, since I thought he was bizarre, but there are a lot of kind of weird people that live in my neighborhood—"

"Maybe not so exact, in the telling of the story, if you don't mind." Sherlock interrupted.

"Right." Posy rolled her eyes at Sherlock. "So I let him in. When he walked past me I grabbed a candlestick and put it in my pocket. When he went through to where the bathroom is he looked around the living room and I could tell he spotted that wallet. You know, the one I found? So he went for it, and I told him to stop and he didn't so I took the candlestick and hit him over the head."

"You decided to attack a stranger in your home over a wallet that isn't yours." Sherlock spelled out.

"Well I figured he was the guy that left it and he was a thief. And I felt brave since he was so skinny. I didn't realize he was armed. Which he was. And the hit over the head did more to piss him off than knock him out.

"Anyway he freaked out and pulled out the gun and at that point I freaked out so I ran to the bathroom since that's the only door that locks." Posy was beginning to visibly shake and John handed her his coffee. She smiled at him as she took it and continued.

"Well I didn't make it, he grabbed me and put the gun right at me and said 'Cut to the chase, what did you tell them.' I couldn't think, the gun just scared the shit out of me. I honestly had no idea what he was talking about, I just thought he meant the wallet or the police," she shook her head in confusion. "So I just said I didn't tell anyone anything and that he could have it, as long as he never came back. Well he kept poking me with the gun and I think he was nervous because I remember him being a little shaky and he started yelling that he knew I had said something to the detective and something about Deb, he referred to her as 'that whore', that she had told me something and I was just about to pass out I was so terrified.

"I kept repeating that I didn't know him and then I realized that he was probably the guy who killed Deb, and then before I could control myself I said it out loud. Well he looked so scared, to be honest, and for a second I thought he was going to run out, but then I saw that he got really, really angry and I ran into the bathroom. I ran in, and he pointed the gun at me, and I threw a pot at him and then I heard the gun. And then I think I passed out, because the next thing I remember I was on the floor and the police were coming into my house and I felt the most awful pain right here." She pointed at her wound and then, taking a shaky sip from John's coffee, returned it to him.

"Did he take the wallet?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know. I haven't been back. A girlfriend brought my clothes to the hospital and drove me here. I think he thought he killed me, but he didn't look like he had killed a lot of people before, you know? He was so frantic."

"He hadn't. I don't think he's the one who killed Deb, I think he was just part of something else. Something bigger. And now you're part of that, too."

"Had Deb ever given you something? A gift, or maybe, left something at your house by mistake?" John asked her.

"No," Posy replied, shaking her head slightly. "Like I said, we weren't really friends or anything. I mean I'd see her outside and we'd chat, and maybe every once in a while around town, but we never had drinks or anything."

"What about other neighbors? Were you or Deb close to any other neighbors?" Sherlock drummed his fingers on his coffee.

"Well, not really. We're the closest on the street. But, maybe," Posy shook her head as if deciding on something. "There was Midge. Midge lives closer to Deb but I've known her longer. She had a clearout not that long ago, I bought a couple things from her. I know her and Deb took a class together."

"Brilliant." Sherlock stood up abruptly and extended his hand to Posy. "We're going back to your house. Show me what you bought from Midge."


	7. Chapter 6

The small house was practically the same except for the taped off bathroom and a few objects that had been misplaced with all the commotion from the incident. Sherlock and John sat on one of her couches as she milled around, checking the house, locking windows, and attempting to track down the objects she had bought from the clearout.

"I know this place is kind of messy, but I can only find two of the things I picked up from Midge," Posy called from the kitchen. "Do you guys want anything? I can put the kettle on."

They both politely declined and Sherlock asked to see the items she found while she kept searching for the remaining one.

"Here," she said handing over a small copper mold and a petite silver cake stand.

"This is what you bought?" Sherlock said, turning the objects over in his hands once and depositing them on the coffee table.

"Yeah, just random stuff. Things that can be used in a still life at some point, you know?"

"Do you remember what the other object was?" Sherlock's impatience was growing.

"It was a book. A teeny one, it was very old. I liked the typesetting. But I never read it, it was too fragile. I think it was a collection of short stories or something."

"Brilliant!" Sherlock exclaimed, surprising both John and Posy. "Finally, finally, finally."

Sherlock paced the room, moving his hands around his head and Posy took the seat beside John.

"Model. You said she models for photographers. Is that all she does? No. The body had ink stains all over her hands and her left thigh, there was a tattoo. Unfinished. Very elaborate. Very expensive." Sherlock shot a look at Posy and then around her house.

"Cheap living you said, shoddy neighborhood. Small houses. That was a very elaborate tattoo, which means she either knew the artist or had some sort of discount, there's no way she'd be able to afford that just on modeling. Not a relationship, no. Someone doesn't start a project of that magnitude if they plan on killing the canvas. Definitely discount. Definitely worked at the shop."

"Wait a second," Posy interrupted. "How do you know the person who killed her was in a relationship with her?"

"Shut up!" Sherlock motioned for her to be quiet.

"Excuse me?" Posy stood up from the couch.

"John! Please!" Sherlock exclaimed. John got up and guided Posy to the kitchen.

"I think I'll take that cuppa, if you don't mind." He added, "He can't be around people when he's thinking."

Sherlock's mind was in overdrive. All of a sudden the small details he had pushed out as insignificant came back gleaming with importance. The red hair connection, that was one thing. But more important was the ink. He had known they were creative types and he assumed the pigment was from drawing or painting but it was from inking. She wasn't an artist herself, they would wear gloves while handling the equipment, but if she was working in the shop than she would be coming in contact with the ink all the time. It would be a mix of fresh ink as well as older stains. Just like the other girls. They didn't just share the same job, they worked at the same place. But where? And why wouldn't that information have come through from the police report?

Sherlock could hear John and Posy laughing in the next room and it distracted him. John didn't have to be so social with everyone he met, did he? He could feel the connections becoming looser in his mind. He shut his eyes to block out the world but he could still hear the flirtatious banter.

"QUIET!" He yelled and heard it cease immediately. After a bit of shuffling Posy appeared in the doorway.

"Listen, you." Her voice was serious but her face still held the good nature from her conversation with John. "This here is my house. I understand you need to do whatever mental thing it is you do, but in here the walls are thin. Now John and I are having a cup of tea and-"

"NO! No, it's going...stop stop stop!" Sherlock shrieked, attempting to block her out.

Posy widened her eyes, appalled. "Get out."

"I just had it, it was right here," Sherlock seethed, pointing directly at his forehead. "God, you are an insufferable woman. It's mindless chatter like you that just blocks up all the roadways to real thought."

Fuming, Posy walked up to the abhorrent detective with her fists clenched beside her. She opened her mouth to speak but he beat her to it.

"Oh, don't bother." He shook his head angrily. "It's gone. I'll have to start over. Dammit. John!"

"He's not your puppet." She said through gritted teeth. "What is your problem? Sometimes you're kind of normal, and sort of soft, and then other times..." her voice was rising as she continued speaking, "It's like you're made of metal."

"I've been called better, worse, and everything in between." Sherlock's gaze was indifferent. John appeared in the doorway, holding a steaming mug, and without a trace of humour on his face.

"Seriously, Sherlock. You'll figure it out, you don't always have to be so repugnant."

"Well this just isn't fair," Sherlock's eyes fixed on Posy's a mere inches from his own. "Now it's two against one."

"Back to metal," Posy said quietly. "Why? Why not just ask politely for what you want."

She was standing so close to him that he could smell the perfume off her skin and the tea she was just sharing with John. For a minute his mind clouded over and he breathed it a bit more deeply when he noticed something else. Not an unfamiliar smell, but one he wasn't expecting. His eyes narrowed and he smiled coldly.

"You won't want this one, John." He said in a low tone that carried any icy bitterness. "She's a drug addict."

Posy's eyes looked like they were going to pop out of their sockets as she slowly backed away from him. Her eyes shot fire at his ice and the tension between them was close to exploding. Before she could say anything he decided to continue.

"That's what you were hiding. Initially I thought you were involved, and well, you are, but of course, unintentionally. So where do they come from? How do you get your fix?"

Posy turned to John as his expression changed from confused to guarded.

"Oh, don't bother, I'll answer it for you. Your darling neighbor Deb."

She turned back to Sherlock, anger fading into disbelief, disbelief morphing into fear.

"No, no. Don't worry, I've got it worked out. You've said, multiple times, you didn't _know_ her. You weren't well acquainted. You were _just_ neighbors. Obviously. If you don't want people to know you're on something, you wouldn't want to be associated with your _dealer_."

Sherlock shook his head in mock disapproval before continuing. "So you bought your drugs off Deb. Your surprise was evident in her death. So much concern over someone you claimed you didn't know. And then, you get attacked. Who lets strangers enter her house to use the bathroom? Someone who is used to having strangers in her house. And he seemed '_off_', that was the word you used, correct? He wasn't off, he was _high_. And therefore he couldn't shoot straight, which is lucky for you. But why all the hiding? You would have saved us all so much time if you just said straight off you were using."

"You're a monster." Posy said quietly, taking a seat and putting her head down.

"Where did she get the drugs?" Sherlock asked pointedly.

"I don't know." Posy breathed. She then pointed to the door. "Get out."

"Very well. I can easily take it from here. John?"

John looked torn but walked out the door before Sherlock without a word to Posy. Sherlock followed him as he hailed a cab. Although he looked quite pleased, Sherlock felt a small knot in the pit of his stomach. It was guilt.


	8. Chapter 7

_Sorry for such a long hiatus, but here's a new piece to the puzzle. No Posy though, wanted to develop this mystery a bit more. Hope you're intrigued!_

"It wasn't right what you did back there, you know."

The following morning, after an entire evening of silence between the two men in their shared apartment, John was the first to speak.

"We got what we went for, hardly any reason to get upset over it." Sherlock replied.

"Nobody's perfect. It doesn't matter really, but you humiliated her. She clearly didn't want people to know about her vices. And honestly, who are you to judge? You're clearly not squeaky clean."

"Oh that doesn't matter. She lied. If she hadn't lied we'd be done with this case already and who knows, maybe she wouldn't have gotten injured. I told you before I didn't trust her. This proves it."

"She lied because she was embarrassed. What happened back there was horrible."

"Well then why didn't you come out like the knight in shining armour to protect her from the horrible dragon, John?"

"Because you caught me off guard, alright? I didn't know how to re-"

"Dragon." Sherlock repeated.

"That would be you." John sighed in defeat.

"Paul." Sherlock stood up and tied his scarf around his neck.

"Paul? What? Are you talking about the iguana?" John stood up with him, yet having no idea what he was up to-_again_.

"Where did Deb buy the iguana, John? At the reptile shop. And who works at the reptile shop?"

"Clay?" John answered slowly.

"You are so good with names, John. Really excellent. She said it was right down the street."

"But isn't he going over to pick it up today? And why does it even matter?"

"John, don't you see?" Sherlock said excitedly. "We just have to find the reptile shop, then it will all make sense. She said it was right down the street from the cafe. Let's go."

Arriving on the busy little street with the overflowing coffee shop, Sherlock and John paced through the endless odd shops until they reached a miniscule window beside a narrow door. Seeing into the shop through the window was impossible due to the spread of silk tropical plants, but the shop name was etched into the glass: Reptilia.

"This looks like the one. Now, what about it?" John asked Sherlock, tugging his coat against the misty weather.

"So if this is here, than beside it should be-" Sherlock walked down the alley beside the tiny cold-blooded shop and noticed a black door with a banner spray-painted across the top. In thick, gothic lettering were the words "Skin Deep."

"Fancy a bit of ink, John?"

"What? This doesn't even look like a real place, how do you know it's open?"

Sherlock squeezed the handle and the door popped open. A few feet behind the door was a large wooden reception desk, covered in graffiti and carvings, the same tag scrawled across the front with the name of the tattoo parlor ablaze. Behind the desk sat a bored young woman, earbuds in her heavily pierced ears. It took her a few moments to realize she had company and she lethargically pulled out the earbuds and ruffled her long, fiery red hair.

"Are you the nine o'clock? Because he isn't here yet and he doesn't like his clients early."

"Ah, no," Sherlock extended his hand to the young woman. "Sorry, I was hoping to make an appointment?"

"How did you hear about us?" The girl suspiciously asked Sherlock, looking between him and John. "And who's he?"

"This is John. We were actually looking to book together. I'm sorry, your hair. It's just absolutely stunning."

Her guard slipped a fraction and she reached for her hair. "Listen, you clearly don't know where you are. If you'd like an appointment, you'll have to talk to someone else. He's not here. Walk-ins are not welcome."

"I'm so sorry, I didn't realize. I was referred, by one of my good friends, she used to work here. Deb, is her name, are you familiar?"

The woman's guard rose back up and she answered defensively, "No. I don't know anyone by that name. I think your friend made a mistake. She would never refer anyone here. I'm the only one who works here."

"And what is your name?" Sherlock asked sweetly.

"Jessica."

"Ah, Jessica. And how long have you worked here?"

"I'm not answering any more of your questions. You need to leave." She retreated to the back of her desk and began looking for something in the draws.

Sherlock approached her suddenly, grabbing her by the shoulders until his face was almost touching hers.

"Listen, Jessica. Three girls who worked here have all been found murdered. Now you're bound to be next if you don't answer a few more of my questions. You can start by telling me your real name."

The girl became visible shaken and her eyes darted wildly around her. "I don't know anything about murders."

"We can help you. What is your name?"

"Andrea." She replied weakly.

"Now Andrea, why did you lie about your name?"

"It's part of the job. Look, I'm very lucky to have this job and I don't want to lose it, no matter what they say about it."

"And what do they say, Andrea?"

"I just want to get through school, yeah?" Andrea began to visible tear up and Sherlock was noticing that he was going to lose her to emotions at any moment.

"Andrea, please. Focus. What do you know about this job?"

"Well," she sniffled, "something is clearly not right. I got this job because of my looks and if anyone asks my name I have to say it's Jessica."

"Alright, what else. What kind of tattooing happens here?"

"Not much. I...I get paid a lot of money to stand reception but no one ever comes in."

"You've never met anyone else that works here?"

"No, except for my boss. And that was only once."

"And what's back there?" Sherlock pointed to a door in the far end of the room.

"I don't know. I'm not allowed to leave my station."

"Aren't you curious, Andrea?" Sherlock began to stride towards the door, but Andrea stepped out in front of him.

"Listen," she said, tears beginning to well up in her eyes. "I can't let you go back there, if you try, I'm going to get the gun from the desk and shoot you. You can't tell anyone what I said." The internal struggle between fear and anger was raging in her mind. "Oh my God, I'm going to lose my job." She lowered her hands and burst into tears.

"Andrea, how long have you worked here?" Sherlock asked slowly.

She mumbled through her sobs and Sherlock and John both shrugged at each other.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. We couldn't hear you." John interjected.

"T-t-two weeks," she whined.

"Listen, for your own safety, I would quit and never come back here, alright? Even if they do find out what you told us, it doesn't matter. This place won't be here for much longer. Now, is there anyone else that you've seen here that you think we should know about?"

The woman's sobs had died down and she began to regain her breath. "Well, no one except for the supplier, Clay."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock asked.

"He's the only one allowed into the back door. He drops off supplies. He has a key. He's real nice, he's become a friend."

"And what kind of supplies does he bring round?"

She fished out a light that resembled a desk lamp and placed it on the desk. She also placed a vial of clear liquid neatly beside it. Sherlock took a look at the lamp and thought it looked familiar. He wondered where had seen this type of lamp before and then he realized: It was for reptiles.

"I don't understand." Sherlock handled the light slightly. "How is this used for the tattoo business?"

"Oh I don't know." A defeated Andrea took the vial and shook it slightly. "Clay saw how bored I was and left me with some. I know it's wrong, but the time goes by much quicker."

John walked towards the vial and peered at it. "I don't understand, Sherlock?"

"What's the light for, Andrea?"

"My ink. You see, Clay taught me that if I use this," she tapped the vial, "on my ink and exposed it to this light, it gives it this glow. It's gorgeous."

"What else, you can do that with makeup, Andrea. Please don't waste my time."

"And," she looked around slowly, as if someone was watching them, "it gives you a great high. Some kind of reaction with the ink under your skin. Clay says it's safer than the regular way, you know?" She sniffed a few times as John nodded his head in understand.

Sherlock knew that he was pressing his luck and that the closer they stayed the riskier their situation became.

"It's clean," she said defensively. "You're not the cops are you? I'm so stupid!"

"Sherlock," John warned. "We really should get going."

"Yes, well, Andrea. We're not the cops." Andrea visibly relaxed. "But, you have to quit, you have to leave, alright?"

She nodded and began to twist the top off the vial. Sherlock stepped in and took it from her. She began to protest but they were out the door before she made a sound.


	9. Chapter 8

_**So a big THANKS! to everyone following and reviewing this story. Updates will be kind of spontaneous due to a lot of work and renovations that are currently happening, so I'll keep trying to update as I finish writing. **_

_**A note on writing Sherlock and keeping him in character: very. difficult.**_

"So what is it?" John asked wearily after an entire night at Bart's. Sherlock was busy testing and retesting the clear liquid without saying a word. John had nodded off a few times and was hoping a discovery was near.

"It's new." Sherlock responded, a bit of excitement in his voice. "It's a narcotic. Hallucinogen. Apparently it has some properties that cause it to glow under UV light, but it evaporates quickly. Extremely quickly. And when it does..." Sherlock dropped another chemical into the solution as it turned black, "...it is absorbed by the ink under the skin and takes on its properties. Like a neat little vaccuum."

"So it would be undetectable?"

"It would seem so. It's toxic, but once it works its way out of the user's system it seems as though you wouldn't be able to trace it. Unless?"

"Unless?" John prodded, hoping for the epiphany that would lead to a closed case and a warm bed.

"MOLLY!" Sherlock bellowed.

"Molly?" John argued. "Molly went home ages ago, Sherlock. It's almost 4 in the morning."

"Typical." Sherlock sighed, a defeated slump to his shoulders. "I just need to see one more thing and this whole case will be closed. Quite brilliant, too, John. Not one that disappoints."

"Right. Wonderful. Then I'm going home. I have to be up tomorrow morning-"

"Why?" Sherlock asked him pointedly. "You don't work tomorrow?"

"Yes. I'm meeting Posy for coffee, actually."

"What?" Sherlock's head whipped around. "That's unnecessary, John. I've practically solved the case, we don't need her involvement anymore."

"Quite right," John began putting on his coat, "but that doesn't change the fact that I feel horrible for what happened and I'd like to apologize. And maybe ask her for a drink. She was quite lovely, and I assume that her dealer being dead she's on the right course for being clean."

"She was a recreational user, John. I doubt you have to worry much about that. Lovely? I thought she was dowdy and irritating. I much prefer one of your other girlfriends."

"Not up for discussion, Sherlock!" John stated, halfway down the hall and on his way to hail a cab home.

"SHERLOCK!" John's voice echoed throughout 221B as the disgruntled John clamored down the stairs and into the sitting area where Sherlock sat with a cup of tea and the paper.

"Good morning, John. I made tea."

"Sherlock. It's almost noon. I was supposed to meet up with Posy 3 hours ago!" John spit his words at Sherlock.

"Oh, were you? And what do I have to do with your schedule, John? Honestly."

"Somehow, it seems, both my alarm clock and mobile have evaporated from my room and these SHEETS," he threw a handful of the dark fabric at Sherlock, "were over my windows. It was a deliberate and malicious sabotage on my morning!"

"John," Sherlock turned down his paper and looked his fuming friend in the eyes, "you ask me to be more accommodating, I was only hoping to make your few hours of sleep as restful as possible. Now if you overslept, I don't see how it's my problem?"

"Why? What is it about this woman that made you want to do this!? Where is my phone? Sherlock. Where is it?"

"Right here, Christ John, you probably left it-" Sherlock was cut short as John ripped the phone off the coffee table and scrolled through his messages.

"Yep. Of course. She's even _more_ upset now. Bullocks."

"I told you she was rash and overexcitable..."

"No, you didn't. And I don't see how it's any business of-" John looked at Sherlock quickly as he put his phone down. "Oh my God. Are you jealous? Do you _like_ this woman, Sherlock?"

Sherlock squinted his eyes in disgust, but did nothing to reply.

"Holy Mary. Of course. Little boys always tease the girls they like, don't they?" John chuckled. "Well, she clearly hates me already so maybe the only solution is for you to make up with her, then? Hmmm?"

"Have you gone mad?" Sherlock got up and headed to his coat. "I have too much to do than deal with your petty problems. I have to go to Bart's, get that last experiment on. Don't involve me in your foolish sentiment, John."

"No." John shook his head and stood his ground with Sherlock. "No, no, no. You owe me, Sherlock. You are going to visit Posy and apologize and then you can head off to Bart's. If you don't, I swear Sherlock, I'll call another drug sweep in."

Sherlock stared at John as if to intimidate him.

"It's the right thing to do. Even if we never see her again. You created this mess now, you clean it up. And we're out of milk."

Sherlock swept out the door dramatically, his coattails in his wake. "I will not bring milk."

John smiled as he logged into his blog.

As Sherlock walked up the walkway to Persephone's home he thought about how predictable she was, and how small her world must be. He tapped on the door, an arrogant expression on his face, as she swung the door open.

"You have got to be kidding me," she sneered, rolling her eyes.

"And he thought you were lovely," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Excuse me? No, actually. Off you go." She made to close the door but Sherlock caught it with his foot.

"May I come in? I have some business to address."

"Oh do you?" She said sarcastically, mimicking his tone. "Well, in that case...go fuck yourself."

She kicked his foot out of the way and slammed the door shut, clutching her wound and swearing at the pain.

"Persephone," Sherlock said through the door, "I promise you'll never see me again, I just have to say a few things to you first, if you could please open the door."

"I don't think you understand-you're not welcome!" She shouted.

Sherlock sighed in frustration. "John sent me. I have a message. Now open the door."

"Bite me!"

"Oh, come on, you can do better than that, surely."

After a few moments, he heard the lock click and the door creeped open. "You have five minutes." She turned her back to him and seated herself on her couch gingerly.

Sherlock sat across from her on the ottoman.

"You're not going to offer me tea?" He asked dryly.

"That would take longer than the four minutes you have remaining."

"OK." Sherlock stared at her as he put his thoughts together. Not one that apologizes often, he found it difficult to find the words to frame his apology while still standing his ground. As he opened his mouth to speak, he saw her wince in pain and quickly straighten back up as if to fool him.

"Are you taking your medication?" He asked.

"No." She replied defensively and then added, "Trying to stay off the _drugs_, you know."

"Look," Sherlock sighed, "I didn't mean to offend you, but I wanted to prove that you were lying-" she winced again, this time finding it harder to hide the pain. "Are you alright?"

"I was trying to change the bandage when you knocked. I think it might be a little infected."

"Well, let's take a look then." Sherlock got up and took hold of her arm to help her stand.

"'Let's?' No, you wait here, it'll just take me a second."

"It's easier with two. Don't be impractical." Shaking her head in defeat, Persephone allowed him to guide her to the bathroom.

Sherlock collected her first aid and medications as she lifted her shirt. His long, white fingers made easy work of removing the bandage, and he noticed her flinch at the contact on her skin. As he took a look at the wound he saw it was, in fact, quite infected and painful.

"Have you ignored everything the doctor told you?" Sherlock asked as he began cleaning the area.

"Ow!" She yelled in protest. "No, just difficult...to do...by myself...it hurts!"

"Oh quit whining, it isn't very becoming." Sherlock disinfected the area and began to apply a balm. She inhaled sharply at the pain and he noticed the tears welling up in her eyes. He stopped for a moment.

"I'm sorry. I'll admit I was quite cruel. To be honest I knew you were lying to me about something and I was just happy to discover it wasn't anything more severe."

Persephone's eyes widened at his blunt apology as he continued, "And also for detaining John this morning. He is very upset with me and I hope you won't be upset with him. You can just direct the hate towards me, I'm really very used to it."

She watched him as he gently replaced the bandage, the soothing painkillers of the balm helping her relax. He didn't look at her again. Once it was all in place, he dropped the supplies on her vanity and walked to the door.

"And I also apologize for taking longer than the five minutes," he muttered.

"Wait, Sherlock, a minute."

He turned to her and noticed her countenance had changed. "I am sorry for lying to you. To be honest, I don't know why I did. I'm not shy about my life choices, it's just that I thought it would look like a flaw in my character somehow-"

"And John is a doctor."

Her eyebrows knitted in her forehead. "John?"

"Yes, you believed it would make you look poorly since he is a man of medicine and honor."

"No, I didn't. Why would you think that?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to look at her, confused. "Because you were both attracted to each other. I understand it was poor of me to do that in front of John when you were so clearly interested in him. But trust me, he was very disappointed this morning when he missed your _date_ so I'm sure you will be able to work things out."

Persephone paused for a moment and sighed. "It wasn't John's opinion I was afraid of souring." She was going to continue when a knock was heard at the door. Persephone's face changed to dread and she ran her hand through her hair. "Shit."

"I should be going." Sherlock made to open the door.

"No, please," she whispered quickly. "It's Clay, remember from the coffee shop? This is the third time he's knocked. I don't want him to know I'm home."

"Oh, you seemed like close friends."

"Don't be daft. He..." she motioned to her bedroom off to the side and closed the door behind them. "...He wants to sell me this drug. He says it's as harmless as coffee. It's this big complicated thing. I refused him twice and now he keeps coming back and I just have this weird feeling about it."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "Does it involve a UV lamp?"

Persephone's eyes widened. "Yes. How do you know?"

"Have you taken it?"

"No. I really am trying to be better." She peered sideways out the curtained window and exhaled as she saw the intruder leave. "Do you think..." her voice trailed off.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, opening the door to the small bedroom.

"Forget it. I guess I'll see you when I see you, Sherlock." She shook her head and ushered him to the door.

"I dislike it when people 'beat around the bush', Persephone. I value straightforward conversation, everything else is a waste of my time. Now, if you had a question?"

"OK. What the hell. Do you think I could crash on your couch for a couple days? I'm freaking out ever since the break-in and now with this guy coming around...I don't have anyone else to ask."

Sherlock looked at her quietly as she shifted nervously below his gaze.

"Actually, I'm sure that's a lie. I think I have a girlfriend that can help me, I'll just give her a call-"

"Fine."

"What?"

"Gather your things. Clay will be back in under an hour, Mrs. Hudson will let you in. I'll be there later, work to do."

And before she could ask the address he was out of her sight and in a cab.


	10. Chapter 9

**_What? 2 Chapters in 1 day, after you don't post for months!? Yeah, I told you updating wouldn't be consistent. Was thinking of hanging on to this but, no time like the present right!?_**

**_Thanks for the reviews, they're super nice and so appreciated. Trying to make this story unique, even though the Sherlock/OC storyline can sometimes be predictable. Hope you enjoy!_**

_hey this is Posy. i dont know where you live._

_How did you get this number? SH_

_i got it when i stole your phone. address?_

_221B Baker Street. SH_

_thanx!_

_What else did you take off my phone, then? SH_

_that's for me to know and you to find out ;)_

_What? SH_

_sorry i always feel more flirty via text. just your number, promise._

_I don't believe your promises. Also, your attempt at "flirty" is quite poor. SH_

_O RLY? your attempt at signing your texts is quite redundant. i know its you. _

_*it's. Have you never heard of a signature? SH_

_theyre actually just your initials. sorry._

_*they're. You have under a half hour. SH_

_yeesh._

Posy laughed as she slipped her phone into her back pocket and continued to shove essentials in her bag. She had met a lot of colorful people in her life, but this Mr. Holmes had clearly taken the cake. She hadn't planned on seeing him again, especially after his last outburst and the fact that she really didn't have much to offer when it came to his case, but somehow this cold gentleman had found it necessary to come back into her life.

She had no idea what she needed for the next couple days since she had never set foot in 221B Baker Street and therefore was unacquainted with the accommodations. Luckily she wasn't a very high-maintenance girl and could still overpack while keeping her baggage light.

Baggage. Her smile faded when she realized her emotional baggage wasn't quite as airy. She was lying to Sherlock-again.

Posy knocked on the unassuming black door and bounced nervously as she waited for it to open. She hoped Sherlock had given her the right address, although she didn't take him as one to make such an absentminded mistake. Sure enough the door opened and an older woman with a kind face beamed out at her.

"Mrs. Hudson?" She asked, extending her hand as the woman nodded. "I'm Posy, Sherlock should have mentioned I'd be coming by?"

"Oh yes, dear! Come right up!"

The woman led her up a narrow staircase to another door and opened it readily. Posy walked in and took in the surroundings. She thought _her_ taste was eclectic, but this was something else. The dim, moody flat was covered books, documents, and _chemistry sets_? Large, comfortable chairs were thrown in. Cups of tea were scattered near them and gave off the impression that someone was always about to return. Some would have called it a mess, but Posy thought the whole place was comforting.

"I am so sorry for this morning, Posy." She smiled as she recognized the voice and turned to see its sandy-haired owner. John stood a few feet away, emerging from the comfortable arm chair, a sweet and apologetic look on his face.

"Oh it's been straightened out. No worries, John."

Mrs. Hudson interrupted them. "Well, I wanted to give you the option dear, you can stay either here or downstairs with me, in case you don't find it decent." Mrs. Hudson smiled and clasped her hands. "I always love a bit of company. But don't decide now, I'll go and bring up some tea, I'll be back in a moment."

"Oh, thank you, that's very kind."

"Aren't you a dear," and with that, Mrs. Hudson disappeared down the stairs.

Posy turned back to John and dropped her bag near the sofa where she meant to sit.

"I'm so sorry to impose like this," she said.

"Oh, don't be silly. I'm actually quite surprised you went back home at all." John replied. "I am glad though that Sherlock was able to straighten everything out today. He can be difficult to deal with."

"Yeah, he's quite an individual." Posy smiled. "I heard he was the reason you missed our date this morning?"

Posy thought there was a hint of blush on John's cheeks. "I wouldn't have stood you up. I'm sorry you thought that for a second. But maybe I can make it up to you with a drink later, if you're up to going out a bit?"

"A drink sounds fantastic, John. That would be great."

The door was heard closing downstairs and a quick climb up the stairs resulted in Sherlock's thin frame appearing in the doorway. He made it straight into the kitchen and began fumbling about with his equipment at the kitchen table without so much of a glance in Posy's direction.

"Sherlock," John called out, "your guest has arrived."

No reply. Posy and John exchanged amused glances as Mrs. Hudson also emerged with a tray of tea and finger sandwiches.

"So, Posy, was it? Oh Posy, have you decided where you'd like to spend the night?"

Posy looked over at Sherlock and John before smiling up to the older woman. "Yes, I'd love to stay in your flat, Mrs. Hudson, if it's no bother? Although I will be out for a drink later with John-"

Sherlock's head lifted a millimeter.

"Unless of course you'd like to join us?"

"Oh aren't you the sweetest?" Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "I'm afraid this old hip would slow the evening down. Why don't we get you settled and you can get ready for later tonight."

"I'll see you later then, John?"

John nodded and waved them off as they left down the stairs. Once their voices had died off, Sherlock got up from his table to his bedroom and slammed it shut.

John and Posy had an extraordinary time at the Pub and it was evident when they returned back to the flat merrily drunk. They sang and laughed and shushed each other for being too loud and collapsed on the couch in a fit of giggles.

"Oh, that was just what I needed," Posy sighed, a chuckle or two still escaping.

"Well, I'm glad. Although not too glad," John lowered his eyes to attempt a serious expression. "We could have been a great couple, you know. You could have been girlfriend number 22. Our two months together would blow your mind!"

Posy laughed in response. "Such a shame we'll just have to settle as pub-buddies. Although, you did get a number tonight, SO, I think I've just won myself a title as 'wing-woman.'".

"Yes!" John fished the number out of his pocket and held it up proudly. "I'm going to file this in my end table immediately. And then I'm pretty sure I'll be out until at least noon tomorrow."

"Thank you for a great evening, John. Do you mind if I just sit here a moment before going down? I don't want to be blazing drunk in front of your landlady."

"Absolutely not. G'night, love." John gave Posy a sloppy kiss to the forehead as she giggled and pushed him off playfully. He then saluted her and clamored off to his room upstairs.

Posy sighed as she scanned the flat, the alcohol in her system bringing up the feelings she was working hard to suppress. The most prominent one: guilt.

She got up and paced, thinking the movement would help jog the feelings away, as her pacing led her to a hallway, then down it, then to a closed door. There was a strip of light at the threshold and she knew exactly who was on the other side of it. Before she knew what she was doing, she lightly knocked.

The door opened and a tall, willowy figure filled the frame. He looked down at her with an unreadable expression. She gulped. This had bad idea written all over it.

"Can I help you, Persephone?" His voice was like liquid velvet. Although she often disliked what he said, how he said it was a completely different matter. Her absence of mind dropped the fear she had originally felt and sought only to keep that voice talking.

"Yes. I have to talk to you. Is this a bad time?" Her words were slow and drawn out, she was overcompensating for her inebriation.

"Very well?" He shifted his weight as he waited for her declaration.

"Can we sit, or something?"

He angled himself to one side, allowing her passage to his room. Once she clumsily entered, he closed the door.

"I'm sure this must be something increasingly important for you to be visiting my bedroom instead of wrapping up the evening in John's." He said the words quickly and without thinking, and once they were out, he instantly regretted them.

He could see she was taken aback by the insult, but her wits weren't quick enough to react normally. Instead she took a step back towards the door and leaned against the frame. "Alright," she drawled. "I knew this was a bad idea." Her voice sounded as if she was speaking to herself rather than to him. He let her continue.

"But whatever, fuck it, right?" She collapsed onto the floor, drawing her knees around her. "I feel guilty and I hate feeling guilty and why do you make me feel so guilty all the time?"

He joined her on the floor, not saying a word, his cerulean eyes piercing into her dull brown ones. She was memorized as looked into and shook herself out of his trance.

"You're so overpowering," she sighed, "it can be hard to talk to you. With your overpowering-ness."

"My overpowering-ness?"

"It's so dark and noble all at the same time! It's like you're the villain but still so freaking self righteous. How can you do that?" She whispered the last question and then decided to answer it. "It's the cheekbones."

"Alright, Miss Taylor. I do believe it's time to get you to bed."

"No!" She shook her head violently and steadied herself. "I came here to tell you everything, OK? Not that I have to, I don't owe you anything. But because I have to. For some reason. Because you make me feel bad. Why do you keep doing that?"

"What is it? You know I don't like conversations that aren't-"

"To the point. Right. OK. Well, then. How's this for 'to the point'? Hi Sherlock, I'm still lying to you. About Deb. And Clay. And the drugs. Sorry."


	11. Chapter 10

She wasn't sure what she expected his reaction to be, but this definitely wasn't it. After her declaration, he stared at her for what seemed like an eternity, then shot up without saying a word. He left the room and locked her in it. She stood up, feeling faint and confused, and sat down on the one chair in the corner of his room.

It couldn't have been more than ten minutes but it felt like ages when he finally returned, balancing a tray with coffee and toast and placing it beside her.

"Eat."

She cocked her head at him and he sighed in exasperation.

"If we're going to have this conversation, Persephone, it would be best if you weren't sputtering nonsense. Now eat and once you sober up, we'll continue."

"You're not mad at me?"

"No. Would it make a difference if I was?"

"I don't know? Mrs. Hudson, she's expecting me."

"I told Mrs. Hudson that you would not be returning to her flat tonight, now eat."

She did as she was told, although it wasn't exactly a culinary masterpiece. The toast was burned with nothing on it and the coffee was terrible, but it did begin to clear out her mind. Once she finished the coffee, she took hold of the glass of water beside it and Sherlock prompted her.

"No unnecessary stories. I'll make this simple. I'll ask the questions and you'll answer them. To be completely clear: I don't care about your life or the people in it, I just need the facts pertinent to this case."

She didn't know why but that stung more than if he had reacted in wild anger. He was so methodical. He really did only care about whatever information she possessed. As if she was some sort of container instead of a human person. She nodded slowly so that he could continue.

"Is there a problem?" He frowned slightly.

"No, go on."

"You stated you lied about your relationship with Clay. How long have you known him?"

"Three years."

"And what _is_ your relationship with him?"

"We dated, briefly, three years ago and then kept in touch. We were never really friends. More like-"

"You know of his prison history then?"

"Yes, I met him once he was released from prison. I did not know that at the time. I also did not know of his love for cold-blooded creatures, which I abhor, and so once I found out-"

"Did you buy drugs from him?"

"Yes."

"Did you know he was the chemist of the drugs he dealt?"

"No."

"How long did he sell you drugs."

"For the time we dated, then maybe a month after that. Then just recently, yesterday."

"He sold you the vial."

"Yes."

"Do you have tattoos?"

"No."

Sherlock smiled at this, and his smile made Posy uncomfortable.

"What was your relationship with Deb?" Sherlock asked slowly.

"We were friends for a while. I accidentally introduced her to Clay about a year ago and they got together. They were together up until she died. I have no involvement with her dea-"

"Where did Deb get her tattoos?"

At this, Posy sighed. She shook her head Sherlock arched an eyebrow indicating his impatience.

"If you want to know that you have to let me finish a freaking sentence."

Sherlock nodded in consent.

"Deb and Clay were together for a while and apparently he convinced her to get this job at some tattoo shop. It's a shady nonbusiness place, you know what I mean? I told her to not get involved-" Posy saw Sherlock's eyes widen and knew what they meant.

"Right, you don't care what I had to do with anything, gotcha. She worked there up until she got killed. From what she told me the job was meaningless but she was making a lot of money for doing nothing. But there were qualifications for the job. She had to have red hair and freckles, for one. She had to be drug-free. And she had to have ink. She only had one small tattoo at the time so the owner went ahead and got her remarkable work done for free as long as she agreed to the job. She loved it. She said that Clay and the owner knew each other but that she could never mention Clay to him because of business, even though she said he was their supplier.

"The only real problem was that at that point Deb was heavily involved in cocaine and they were very strict with the drug-free policy. So much so that they would randomly test. So, what do you know? Clay develops this perfect drug that she can take that is so clean, no one can detect it in her system, and its effects are supposedly even more sublime than cocaine."

"How long were you in contact with Deb before she was murdered?"

"At that point I hadn't seen her in months. Once she started on that new drug she became a different person. It was like an antidepressant. I swear, some days I would walk right up to her and she would just stare at me like I wasn't even there."

"Do you still have the vial?"

"Yes."

"How many doses did you take?"

"None. So the case is solved then?"

"Practically, but not yet. We need evidence. And motive. All in good time."

Posy looked at him, expecting more questions. Sherlock got up and motioned to his bed.

"That'll do, Miss Taylor. You can spend the remainder of the night in this bed. I have a few experiments to conduct."

"You're not going to kick me out?"

"No, good night."

He walked out of the room and once again she heard him lock the door. She looked around the room and didn't know how to feel. She wondered if she would be connected to the crime, if Sherlock was keeping her in here to arrest her in the morning. Surprisingly, fear did not accompany the thought and the weight of everything she had confessed fell upon her. The second hand on the clock ticked fourteen times from the moment her head touched the pillow until she was fast asleep.

Her left thigh was vibrating. It stopped. She snuggled into her pillow. She felt the sunlight through her closed eyelids.

Her thigh vibrated again. Odd. She turned over, wrapping herself in the silky sheets. When did her sheets get so soft? When did her room get so bright? The third buzz shot her awake.

"Hello?" Her greeting fell on deaf ears since she was the only one in the room. Sherlock's room. She stretched and the smell of the sheets created a permanent stamp on her memory. Is this how he smelled? She needed to find out.

Posy sat up and fished the phone out of her pocket as it went off a fourth time. She was greeted by 4 annoying texts.

_I'm at Bart's. Come at once. SH_

_Are you still asleep? How inconvenient. Come to Bart's immediately. SH_

_Have you died? If so, I'm sure you'll get to Bart's later than anticipated. SH_

_Bring coffee. SH_

After the roller coaster ride of the previous evening, she couldn't believe Sherlock Holmes of all people could get her to smile this early in the morning. How was it that his impersonal demeanor could be so charming? His texts, although curt and somewhat rude, were _cute_.

She replied:

_in case you forgot, im locked hostage. PT_

Posy took a walk to the mirror and began to straighten up as much as possible. She desperately wanted a shower and change of clothes but Sherlock sounded urgent. Although, when _wasn't_ he urgent?

_You're ridiculous. I take 2 sugars. Black. Hurry. SH_

Ridiculous? Posy strode to the door and turned the handle. Unlocked. So did he think she would be less of a flight hazard in the morning? She guessed he realized she didn't have anywhere to run to.

What she didn't manage to say last night was that she only bought the stupid vial from Clay in order to try and figure out what brought on Deb's death. She wasn't planning on using it recreationally. She also wanted to tell Sherlock that she was frightened of him, that the last time she refused Clay he became angry in a way she hadn't seen him before. That she believed he killed Deb and after being shot herself within the past week, she was a little more than jumpy.

Sherlock didn't give her a chance to say that she didn't want to risk any of her friend's lives by going to them, even though she had the choice. That she had asked to crash here because she really did believe he was capable of ensuring her safety as well as his own. She wanted to tell him that she knew she was strong enough to survive this situation, but she wanted his help.

But she didn't get to tell him any of that. Because he made it crystal clear he didn't care.

Posy found the rest of the house empty, not even Mrs. Hudson was in her flat. She had left her door locked and chain set, it was impossible for Posy to get to her packed bag. So, she set off for Bart's, passed a coffee shop and picked up 3 coffees. The requested black with 2 sugars paired with 2 plain black coffees, creams and sugar on the side.

Posy entered the establishment and was stopped at the door. She mentioned Sherlock and was still not granted access. She was about to leave when the familiar buzz came to her rescue.

_Show them the following text. SH_

_Thomas. My assistant. Let her in immediately. la tl eh eb tt re to es ye uo iw ht. SH_

Posy showed the man the text and like magic, she was let through. As she made her way to the laboratory she wondered what other doors he was able to open.

As she reached the room he had sent her to, a young woman stepped out with brown hair and a young face with small features. She smiled politely and addressed Posy.

"He said his assistant was coming by with his usual coffee today. Hello, my name is Molly." She extended her hand out and Posy juggled the coffee to match it with her own.

"Hi, Posy."

"Didn't know he had _another_ assistant." Posy could tell through the politeness that this girl was a bit put off.

"Neither did I! He's right in there then?"

Molly nodded and walked away as Posy entered the room.

"Your _assistant _is here!" Posy shouted as she entered the room, looking around at the sterile place for Sherlock. No reply, per usual, she found him staring into a microscope at the end of the room. As she walked into his field of view, he waved her over, the only action that indicated he was aware of her presence.

"Where's John?" she asked.

"Work."

"Aw, I brought him a coffee. Guess I'll save it for that Molly girl? She seems nice."

"Yes, yes. You took too long."

"Good morning to you, too, sunshine."

Posy removed his coffee from the cradle and placed it beside him gingerly and took a seat across the table. He sighed, pushed away from the table and took a sip of his coffee. Nodding in approval, Posy relaxed and picked up her own cup.

"So, what do you need me for? Another interrogation?"

Sherlock's seriousness made her comfort level drop. "I need you for an experiment."

"Excuse me?"

Sherlock put down the coffee and finally made eye contact. As much as she had hoped for that once she came in the room, now it felt like he was seeing through her.

"You mentioned that Clay's drug was untraceable. It is. But only to those with a specific tattoo ink under their skin. The formula is highly pigmented and somewhat organic. All of the victims who I suspect were under the influence of the drug had this ink somewhere on their bodies and quite a bit of it at that. Because of that, I've never been able to test the effects it has once taken."

"You wanted to know if I had any tattoos last night."

Sherlock's head dropped an inch.

"You want me to take it?"

"And I will be monitoring the effects. Completely safe, completely controlled."

"Except for the fact that you have no idea what will happen?"

"Based on the sample I collected, I've been able to create a fail safe." Sherlock slid another vial of blue liquid towards Persephone. "If anything gets out of hand, this should be able to correct it."

"You want me to be your lab rat? Are you out of your mind?"

"You said you bought a vial from Clay. Am I completely absurd in assuming you bought it with the intention of taking it yourself?"

Posy drew back, staring at the man before her. He was right. But he was also not playing fair. What kind of person would want to run an experiment on another human being. A live one.

"You think I'm expendable enough to be used as a human test subject when you're not sure of the consequences?"

At this, Sherlock looked genuinely confused.

"My opinion towards you is irrelevant. What I think is that you were going to run the same experiment, on your own, without a fail safe, and with no way to properly document and analyze the result. I'm offering you safety and a noble reason for your sacrifice."

Posy was about to respond when Sherlock continued. "I would have done it myself. However, as I do not know the outcome of the drug, I cannot create a controlled experiment and the results would be useless. I do not find myself expendable, Miss Taylor, but I do what needs to be done."

"I have a job, I need it to keep my house. I can't really perform if I'm pumped full of narcotics."

"I estimate I will need a week's time, and that includes a full detox. I'll compensate you with twice whatever you make for that week."

"Well what about this?" Posy pointed to her wound. "It's fairly close to healed but I can't really know what will happen if I'm fucked up."

"Very well. One week for your wound, it won't be completely healed but out of danger's way. That's two weeks time. Two weeks and you're back to your life and all the boogey men that are out to get you are behind bars."

"Does John know about this?"

Sherlock looked away and her answer was clear.

"Fine. But this first week I'm free to do as I please so I'll just report back-"

"You know very well that you can't return to your home, or your job, or your beloved cafe. If Mr. Clay gets a hold of you he will not be as forthcoming about you testing his creation. And I doubt he'll be alone."

Persephone knew he was right. Now it was her turn to look away.

"Need I remind you the longer it takes to close this case, the larger the risk of someone else ending up like your friend?"

The velvety tone of his voice was beginning to lose it's appeal. Posy didn't know what Sherlock's intentions were towards her or if that 'fail safe' was even real. If she died, he could just stick her into one of the boxes along the walls and leave everything perfect. She knew this was a risk, so why did she trust him?

"Fuck it." Her voice was harsh and Sherlock looked at her with mild surprise. "You're responsible for my wound. Let's start immediately. I have only one condition."

"Very well," Sherlock's voice was laced with mild amusement.

"If I die, make it look like I was just one of the others."


	12. Chapter 11

_**I don't really do a lot of author's notes but I had to say thanks for the reviews and follows and favorites and everything because I just really appreciate it. It really is amazing to know you're reading and (for some reason) actually sticking around and liking it! I'm very grateful for you taking the time and reading/reviewing.**_

_**Also, this story is about to tread into some real murky waters for a while. Just a head's up, and a reminder that it's always darkest before dawn!**_

* * *

After their agreement at Bart's, Sherlock and Posy worked out the details of their arrangement. They would spend the week in a rented flat outside the city and neither one of them was to leave at any time. No one could know of this arrangement for both Posy's safety as well as interference from anyone else-specifically-John.

The idea was that if Posy was found mid-experiment and taken to a hospital, her chances of survival would be slashed since they were dealing with a new and unfamiliar substance. Sherlock convinced her that the fail safe was indeed real, showing her the science behind the development. She didn't understand any of it, but his effort helped soothe her anxiety.

Sherlock escorted Posy to her house to collect any other things she may need for the week, as well as to lock it up for the extended stay. The last time she did this, she thought to herself, was when she was vacationing in Spain. What a crap holiday this was about to be.

They didn't lose any time, Posy texted John, saying she heard from family up north and was headed to spend the week with them until she felt better. She assured him that if he needed to get in touch to text, Sherlock was in charge of her phone if she was unfit to do so. He complained about how difficult it would be to communicate in such a primitive way in order to convince John it was really her.

When they finally reached the flat it was in a shoddy building in a shoddy neighborhood. They were on the top floor in a corner unit that was very small and did not possess any of the character of Baker Street. There were two tiny bedrooms that were side to side, a small bathroom that was stripped to the basics, and a common area that was more like an extension of the galley kitchen. A dodgy couch that was not made for comfort took up the feeble space and an old tube television sat across from it.

"Way to make it nice for a girl, eh?" Posy said as she carried her bags into the living room, regret blooming in her stomach at the sight of the place.

"It's only a week." Sherlock did not lose any time in setting up his equipment and settling in.

"You're not really like, a serial killer, right?" Posy called while inspecting the bathroom.

"No. Limited to Consulting Detective."

"OK, great." Her voice was a bit shaky and Sherlock looked over at her. "Just remembering all that advice my mom gave me. You know, don't get in cars with boys. Don't stay in dodgy flats with Consulting Detectives and experiment with unknown drugs for weeks at a time."

Sherlock walked towards her and put his hands on her shoulders. She was surprised at how far his fingers stretched onto her back and stirred at the contact. She then remembered his gorgeous sheets and inhaled deeply. Yes, she thought, he really does smell like that.

"If you have any second thoughts or regrets you're free to leave." He said slowly, in what Persephone thought was the most comforting voice he could muster. "But if you're going to leave, do it now. Once we get started we have to finish. It's only a week and I need you to trust me."

She had no idea what this week had in store for her, but she was sure of one thing. Far beyond her control or reason, she did trust him. She nodded slowly and he released her shoulders to continue with his work.

* * *

Later that night Sherlock ordered takeaway and had the landlord bring it up to their flat. They dished the food out and sat across from each other, on the floor, neither one of them speaking or eating.

"You haven't touched the food." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

"Kind of nervous," was the reply. "When do we get started?"

"Tomorrow. No use beginning today, I want to record all the immediate reactions."

Posy nodded and picked at her food. "There isn't anything to drink around here, is there?"

Sherlock rose and went to one of the cabinets where had unpacked his materials. He slipped out a bottle and brought it to the table. It was amaretto.

"We can't afford a hangover," he advised as he poured out two glasses.

"Thank you." Posy took the glass from him and sipped on the amber liquid. It was smooth and sweet and as it went down it left a trail of warmth. He remembered she liked this.

"I don't know anything about you." Posy let the statement float between them. It was true and yet it didn't really matter. She expected him to be his usual self and let it fade away, responding only with another question or a change of topic.

"What were you hoping to know?" Her eyes fluttered up in surprise at his response.

"I don't know. I just find it strange that you know everything about me with your deductions. Tomorrow I'll be completely vulnerable in your care. And yet I don't know a thing about you. Well," she drawled out with a smile, "I know you have excellent taste in bedsheets."

"Mrs. Hudson picked them for me." Sherlock answered flatly.

"Oh."

A few moments passed as they sipped on the amaretto. Sherlock was the first to break their silence. "I have a brother."

"Is he like you?"

"He is nothing like me." His response was laced with resentment and Posy decided to leave the thread untouched.

"You ended your relationship with John." Posy found it unexpected that he kept the conversation going. She thought he would prefer the silence but she welcomed the opportunity at casual conversation.

"I didn't end anything, we never had a relationship." She smiled at her own response.

"You both went out on a date, that's social convention for a relationship isn't it?"

"It wasn't a date, it was two friends going out for drinks. If you must know, I was John's wingman and he may actually get a _real_ date because of me."

It was Sherlock's turn to smile. It was both charming and odd to see his face smile. "And what is a wingman exactly?"

"What!?" Posy found it incredulous for him to ask such a question. He looked almost slightly embarrassed. "Boy, you seriously need to get out more, Mr. Holmes. A wingman helps his guy friend get the girl. Sometimes if the girl is with a friend the wingman distracts her so his friend has a chance. That's what I did, and I was pretty fantastic at it."

"Well congratulations Persephone, yet another talent I was not aware you possessed." His tone was light and playful. She wondered if he was relaxed or if it was just an effect of the liquor.

"Why do you call me that?" The warmth of the drink was helping her feel brave.

"What do I call you?"

"Persephone. No one-ever-calls me by my full name."

"Well, that's a shame. It's your name isn't it?" Sherlock refilled both glasses.

"Yes, but it's also very long and complicated to say."

"It's lovely." Sherlock answered. Posy thought he was being sarcastic.

"It's kind of obnoxious, I think." When she was unsure of how to deal with compliments, she easily deflected them with self-deprecation.

"It's _'kind of'_ appropriate, then." Sherlock answered, a slight chuckle escaping from him.

She gasped in mock outrage, "Sherlock Holmes! Are you insinuating that I'm obnoxious?"

"I don't have to insinuate. I've deduced it." Sherlock and Posy found themselves laughing heartily. She hadn't spent much time with him but she was noticing how dynamic his personality could be. He changed from ice cold logic to sarcastic wit to an almost silly humor all in the same breath. She once believed he was always hard, cold, and arrogant, too. She was beginning to see depth within his personality and for the first time considered the capacity of his emotions.

"And you?" She asked suddenly, "Have you ever been in a relationship? Has a lovely lady stolen the heart of the world's only Consulting Detective?"

His smile was sly, but his eyes held just a bit of edge to them. "Miss Taylor, that would be impossible. I'd have to possess a heart in order to have it stolen. You should know, better than most, that men made of metal have no hearts."

Her guilt at the words she spoke to him tugged at her, but she decided to challenge his statement with logic.

"Men made of metal don't have brains, either, Mr. Holmes. And since you clearly have one, I'd have to come to the conclusion that you have the other."

He didn't answer right away, and for a moment she thought she had almost had the last word. He shook his head, took the bottle off the table and walked it back to the cabinet. "You are a very ridiculous girl, Perseph-ah, I guess I should stop calling you by that obnoxious name?"

She cleared off the table and followed him into the kitchen.

"I have a secret." She sashayed after him and handed him the containers as he slipped them in the refrigerator.

"I have a feeling you're about to reveal it to me." He closed the door to the refrigerator and rested his eyes on hers.

"I really don't mind when you say it."


	13. Chapter 12

_**Fright: N. an experience that causes one to feel sudden intense fear: I put together this chapter and released it out to the fandom.**_

_**Thank you for all the reviews/favorites/follows and overall reads. As we start to spiral down to the finish line I hope I don't disappoint. Your kindness baffles me.**_

* * *

Sherlock woke up the following morning before the sun. He straightened up his shoddy room, got dressed, managed his appearance and stepped out into the flat. As he passed Persephone's room he paused and peeked in the open door-she had refused to close it. Her body was sprawled across the bed, her face contorted in a deep, blissful sleep. As she slept, Sherlock indulged himself in taking in her appearance while she was still at ease. The freckles scattered across her cheeks, her long black hair that was neither really straight or really wavy. She was slim, but not skeletal, and her skin was very pale.

He imagined this would be the last time this week she'd be this comfortable. He did not understand all the effects the drug would have on her, but he knew enough about the ingredients to understand some of the discomfort she was about to face. He was surprised to realize that he actually felt a bit sad. He shook it off and headed to kitchen. He developed a cleansing tea that she would need to have in order to purify her system before they began.

The smell wafted across the tiny flat and almost immediately Sherlock heard her stir. She yawned and a few minutes later she shuffled into the kitchen, her hair a mess and a thin sweater falling off her shoulders.

"What is that?" Her voice sounded disgusted.

"Your breakfast," Sherlock replied. The look on her face almost caused him to laugh. He withheld the emotion, finding it inappropriate.

"You're crazy, it smells like compost!"

"It's necessary to clean out your system, we don't want anything interfering with the results."

"Ugh," she groaned and sat at the tiny table. "What are you having? Bacon and eggs? Scones and curd?"

"I will share in your distress, just to prove that you're being overly dramatic."

Sherlock placed out the teacups and poured out the viscous, steaming liquid. They sat, staring at the noxious solution, neither taking a sip. Posy spoke first.

"Very well. Prove it's not as bad as it looks-and _smells_."

Sherlock nodded and took a quick sip, his face stoic as he swallowed the medication. He felt his nostrils flare and he couldn't hold it back, the bile rising in his throat. He swallowed it down and coughed out violently, unable to convince her it was indeed fine.

It began as a soft giggle, and grew into a full-bellied laugh. Posy apologized between bouts of laughter, attempting to smother it and only resulting in her laughing harder. It was infectious. Sherlock attempted to steady the urge growing in his chest, but the more he resisted, the harder it became. Soon he joined her, the pent-up laughter exploding through him, the two of them in tears once they managed to regain themselves.

"Coffee?" Posy asked him, still chuckling as she removed the cups from the table.

"Black-"

"2 sugars. Got it."

As she worked around him, the light-hearted mood gave way to the tension of their obligation. Once the coffee was served, they drank in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Sherlock often thought of saying something, but quickly retracted. What could he say that would help the situation?

After breakfast, they moved quickly. Posy showered and changed into comfortable clothes. Sherlock loaded the syringe and filled a pitcher with water. She came out to the dingy couch where he worked. A monitoring machine was set up and Sherlock was finalizing the settings. As she sat on the couch he looked at her, hair still so wet it dripped onto the wooly upholstery.

"Let's not make this more of a deal than it really is, OK?" She stated as if he was arguing with her. "Besides, this is a treat. You know, if I don't die or anything."

"Once we get the results we need, I'll run the fail safe through your system and we'll be finished. We may not need the entire week, it depends how rapidly this affects your system."

"Alright." Sherlock took her vitals and documented them. Then he took a quick photograph of her and attached a few wires to her chest and temples. He cordoned off her forearm and cleaned the area, noticing the delicate white skin react with goose pimples.

"One dose. If you notice any dramatic changes, keep talking. I'm keeping a record."

"So you actually want me to talk about how I'm feeling, then?"

"As much as I may regret it, yes." He thought about giving her a smile or an indication of affection but decided against it.

Sherlock slipped the syringe into the vein and pumped the solution into her bloodstream. She inhaled sharply at the intake and exhaled as she relaxed. He removed the tourniquet from her forearm and collected his laptop, sitting across from her.

"So, now we party?" She smiled nervously.

* * *

Sherlock was in his room, dawn was almost breaking, and he was going over the audio he had documented during their first day. Posy was asleep in the next room.

The results of the day went exactly as he had planned until a few hours prior to her falling asleep. The drug didn't seem to affect her much at first, but then her behavior began to slowly change. She became a bit more excited, her heart rate and brain activity elevated. She chattered. Oh, for how long she went on and on about the mundane and trivial.

After a while of that, she complained she was hungry. They ate. She told him she didn't feel as though anything was affecting her more than a few cups of coffee. He first saw her change through her eyes. Then, her statements began to make less sense, the thoughts broken apart and disjointed. However, her mood was good. She was riding a happy high.

They went on that way for a good part of the day. In the early evening Sherlock took her vitals. Everything seemed normal, but her eyes continued to glaze over. After dinner she told him she was experiencing a chill. They watched television. She did a lot of laughing.

Then he lost her.

He scrubbed through the audio to where it first happened.

"_Are you cold, Sherlock? It's freezing in here."_

"_It's evening, Persephone."_

Hearing his voice sounded odd-is that what he really sounded like? He thought it sounded a bit cold. He heard himself get up, this was when he got her the blanket. He then heard the footsteps to the kitchen, pouring the water, walking back. He heard the china tap the wood surface.

"_No, I don't want that." _She refused the steaming cup.

Then nothing. For the rest of the evening she said and did nothing. He noticed she stared straight, eyes locked onto the television. She blinked, but didn't mutter a word. He moved his hand in front of her face, she barely glanced at him.

It got late and he took her vitals again. This time her heart rate was lower, but her brain activity was on overdrive. He documented that he believed her to be in a type of dream state. He brought her to bed.

"_Persephone, it's time to sleep. Can you sleep?"_

She said nothing, but closed her eyes. The audio captured her slight sigh as she exhaled into slumber. He stood watching, waiting for her to wake up, but she did not. He took her pulse and left the room, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Sherlock must have fallen asleep sometime in the early morning but he woke with a start when he heard someone trying to open the front door. He shot out and saw Persephone fumble with the locks, pulling at the handle.

"You're awake. It's locked from the outside," he said to her slowly.

She turned to look at him. Her demeanor was quite calm, but the recognition in her eyes was miles away. She then walked to the brightest window and sat before it.

"I'm cold, Sherlock." Her voice was soft.

"I'd raise the thermostat but it's already at 23C. Why don't you try a jumper?"

As he observed her he could see that her consciousness was smothered by the effects of the drug. Regardless, she was still trying to communicate with him.

"Can you clean this out?" She pointed to her abdomen.

He did as she asked, surprised to see the wound that was so severely infected only a few days prior was now almost completely healed.

"Persephone, I believe it's time to remove the stitches, would you like me to do that?"

She nodded. He continued to speak to her while he worked.

"Does this hurt or feel uncomfortable?"

"No."

"This healed remarkably well. I'd say you should be fine by the end of the week. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes."

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes. And...can I have more, please? I'm beginning to feel that I want more of the injection."

Sherlock could hear her rational mind coming through her hazy one.

"Are you experiencing withdrawl? What are the symptoms?"

"I am irritable, I suppose. And dizzy, my mind is quite fuzy. And...cold. My skin is crawling a bit. And...it's just like a craving."

Sherlock removed the last of the stitches and replaced her bandage. They went back to the couch and he measured out the dosage. He took her vitals, cordoned off the area and looked for the injection point he used yesterday. He couldn't find it.

"Interesting." He mumbled and inserted the needle. This time Persephone only exhaled in relief. She closed her eyes as he documented the results.

When she opened her eyes again she was almost in a catatonic state. He observed that her attention was aimed at nothing, although when moving around the flat she was still aware of the objects surrounding her.

That evening, at the same time of the previous night, she retreated into her bedroom and fell asleep.

The next few days went on the same way. The time she spent staring at the television Sherlock spent analyzing the samples he would take from her. The results were better than he anticipated.

Her body was in a constant state of healing, much more accelerated than anything he had ever seen. This activity was weighing down on her energy and seemed to induce her mind into a type of awake R.E.M. cycle. He had no idea what visions she was having, but he knew that something was keeping her attention so contained. Her mind, he believed, was setting up an alternate reality for her and she could very well be active in it while her body was otherwise stagnant.

The only thing he couldn't figure out was why she was complaining of cold. Her body temperature was higher than normal, she was slightly feverish. But as she sat there he could see her shiver. Every morning she would attempt to leave, and then immediately sit beside the open window.

"The lamp!" Sherlock exclaimed, looking over to see if he had roused her. She still sat staring away from him. The light! He began to see the victims, all slightly sunburned. They craved the light. But then why was it that they all had symptoms of hypothermia? It didn't add up.

Sherlock collected his findings and decided he had enough of what he needed. Although they were a few days early he was curious to know what hallucinations Posy was experiencing. That information would only be available once she was brought to her correct state of mind. He kept a half-dose of the drug as a record and disposed of the remainder.

Sherlock took the fail safe and loaded the syringe. He sat beside Persephone and put his hand on her shoulder. She turned to face him. He noticed that the only time she would react to him was by touch. "We have everything we came for, Persephone. We're done and early. I'm going to inject you with the fail safe now so that your body will be clear of the drug. Do you understand?"

She stared back at him. Sherlock felt uncomfortable injecting her without her acknowledgement or consent. He placed both hands on either side of her face. Despite her fever, she felt cold to the touch. She reacted by closing her eyes. "No, Persephone," he shook her slightly, "not asleep. Look at me. Do you know who I am?"

She opened her eyes again and he noticed how the light he saw only a few days earlier was extinguished. He felt his chest tighten as he remembered them sparkling during the laughter they shared only a few days prior. Now, he thought, she was practically the living dead. Slowly her head moved up and then down, nodding, answering his question. He smiled.

"We're going to bring you back, you ridiculous girl. Nod again if you understand."

A few moments passed as she stared back at him with no response. Sherlock sighed and dropped his hands from her face. Quickly grabbed his wrist and held one hand in place. Her voice was barely audible as she breathed, "I understand."

* * *

Sherlock was quite proud of the antidote he had developed. He had tested it several times in many different environments, and he believed his perfected formula was simply elegant. The antidote only sought out the foreign chemicals of the drug and metabolized with them in order to eradicate them. He assumed it was the same process that occurred with the ink.

He thought of Clay and how this drug formula could be modified for a genius medication. Other than the fact that it rendered its users almost comatose, the effects it had on healing the body were extraordinary.

He tapped on the vial and applied the tourniquet to Persephone's forearm. After she spoke to him she had returned to being unresponsive. He couldn't believe he was admitting it to himself, but he was looking forward to having her back.

He took her vitals one last time and had her strapped into the monitoring machine. This time he had already sat her in bed, thinking it would be best if he monitored her overnight until the solution was worked out of her system. He injected the liquid, and the usual exhale of pleasure was cut short by a jagged inhale. Persephone's eyes widened as she tried to jerk her arm away-but Sherlock held fast.

"It's alright, it's alright," he cooed as he removed the syringe and the elastic.

She was quiet for a moment and then her breathing became more rapid and erratic.

"Cold, cold!" She breathed as she began to thrash on the bed. Sherlock wrapped her in blankets and held her down.

"With some withdrawal attempts it is necessary to tie the patient down. I do not want to do that with you, Persephone. I need you to try your best to hold it together."

Her neck snapped back and she continued to struggle as the monitor beeped uncontrollably. Her heart rate and blood pressure began to skyrocket.

"Persephone, you have to relax. I know it is difficult but please trying breathing-"

The activity on the monitor continued at an alarming rate. Sherlock hadn't anticipated for her body to react so strongly. Suddenly, she fell limp beneath him. Her heart rate begin to slow indefinitely. Her body temperature was dropping rapidly as well.

Sherlock could hear his heart rate begin to elevate. "No, no, no..." he mumbled as he went through the data on his computer, back to his trials, back to the ingredients. He stared at the monitor hoping this was all an effect of the detox and that they would stabilize. Lower and lower her temperature dropped and panic began to settle. He waited one more second and then did what he hoped he wouldn't have to do.

Sherlock punched the number into his phone. After two rings the familiar voice answered.

"John," Sherlock breathed. "I need you now, there's an emergency. Come immediately and bring your bag."


	14. Chapter 13

**So, good news: As of this moment I've finished writing this story. Six chapters left you guys! (Including this one.) Now comes the time-consuming part: editing. Lots of stuff happening so stick with me for the last few chapters!**

**Oh and to everyone who's read/reviewed/followed/favorited-I tip my hat and offer you a round of drinks! Well, maybe not the drinks...but you're wonderful and thanks for being so kind!**

* * *

Sherlock wasn't one to admit love, but he knew he loved John. One of the reasons being that when John was in an emergency, he jumped to action and didn't waste time asking questions or blabbering on about how irresponsible Sherlock was. That would all come later, of course, either over tea or with a swift fist to the jaw. But now, John was immediately responding to the problem at hand, and that was keeping the girl on the bed alive.

"I need to know what she's been given," John demanded, Sherlock throwing the documents into his hands. "Are you kidding?" he mumbled as he looked through them. "Oh, good God. Sherlock," John addressed him, exasperated, "I need you out of here. Get out."

Sherlock did as he was told, the irony not lost on him of the many times he ordered others out of his work space. Alone he walked to the kitchen and pulled out the bottle of amaretto from the top cabinet. He screwed off the cap and took a swig. If anyone else was in the room he would have simply sat or stood or perhaps even paced. But no one was here now, he was out of cigarettes, and his nerves were shot.

The door opened and slammed shut as John stormed out. "Where's the original? The drug you tried to wash out with this rubbish?"

Sherlock opened his case and removed the vial with the half dose. "This is all that's left."

John snatched it from his hand and ran back into the room, once again slamming the door behind him.

It seemed like ages until John emerged, bag in hand, a petulant look on his face.

"She's fine, then?" Sherlock asked him.

John seethed. "No, Sherlock. No. She's not fine."

The horror of the situation materialized on Sherlock's face and he felt his resolve weaken. He took a seat in the chair beside him.

"She's subdued. She's still under the effects, that gives me a little under 20 hours to find a way to detox the substance...properly."

Sherlock exhaled in relief. "She's alive."

"Barely." John paced, starting sentences but too angry to finish them. Finally he managed to spit out, "Sherlock. I'm not even going to begin to lecture you on what went on here, but I cannot _believe_ you would ever risk someone's life this way. I have to go," he sighed deeply, "she'll be awake soon but she cannot move from that bed, and you," pointing squarely between the detective's eyes, "will not give her anything. You will not even lay one finger on that girl until I'm back. It's a bloody miracle she's still breathing after what you did to her." He meant to add something else but just shook his head and left.

Sherlock sat there, feeling the weight of the situation fatigue his shoulders. He couldn't understand what went wrong, he had done all his tests properly. The one thought he kept pushing to the back of his mind kept creeping up: He could have killed her. She would have been dead because of his curiosity and her willingness to play a part in it. For the first time, Sherlock truly felt like the psychopath others had relentlessly called him. Was he a man of science, like he had always convinced himself? Or was he simply a man after his own ego?

* * *

Posy felt her eyes open and realized she was staring at a ceiling. Her mind was a fog, her body felt heavy and sore. She saw an IV hooked into her arm and heard the beeping of a monitor beside her. Was she in a hospital? Her eyes kept on the ceiling. This must be the most disgusting hospital she's ever seen.

"I'm not sure if you can hear me," she heard a familiar voice to her right. The smooth baritone helped her relax, she felt like it was ages since she last heard it. She closed her eyes to savor the sound. "Please forgive me."

Her eyelids fluttered open at this phrase, everything feeling sluggish and slow. She meant to turn her head and acknowledge him but couldn't find the energy. She wiggled the fingers on her left hand slightly, confirmation that she was awake and able to move.

"I am what they say I am, Persephone. I'm a monster. As you so eloquently pointed out... a man made of metal. I put your life at risk for the sake of knowledge and it was the wrong thing to do." She could feel him run his hands through his hair. After an exasperated sigh, he continued, his tone tight and defensive, "I don't _feel_ like normal people feel. I _think_. My mind never stops, it barrels on and out of control. My emotions are different. They are stagnant, apathetic. You said that a metal man with a brain must have a heart, but you were mistaken. A human being with the capacity for a heart wouldn't have done what I did to you so easily."

She knew he believed her to be in some state of unconsciousness. There was no way he'd be so open and vulnerable if he thought she could hear him. As he continued, she realized, it was more for his sake than her own.

"At times I do wish I was better. When it gets to be too much, a part of me wishes that I could be a little less clever and a little softer. But my purpose remains for deducing human flaws, I lack the ability to fix my own. Sherlock Holmes, the man, is a myth. I'm only the shell of a man that houses a hard drive of information. I hurt you, and for that I am-" his voice broke slightly, "I am sorry."

She heard him rise and leave. Silly tin man, she thought, if you were unable to feel you wouldn't have apologized to me. If you didn't have a heart, it wouldn't feel guilt or pain or in this case, sorrow. She exhaled and tried to stretch, every movement aching in her body. She felt awake for the first time in days, but still not fully herself. And there was still this itching below her skin.

The footsteps returned and the mysterious consulting detective came back as she was testing out her limbs. He seemed surprised to see her moving. She smiled at him and his face was alarmed. She patted the side of her bed indicating for him to sit. He did.

"I've still got it, haven't I?"

"Yes," he answered slowly. "The fail safe did not work. You had a lapse and almost flat-lined."

She nodded her head in agreement. She did not remember much but felt the pain of her experience echo in her chest.

"John saved you. He's still saving you. Apparently the drug modifies something in the body so that its absence causes it to fail. I thought it was simply a modifier, but it seems much more parasitic."

"So I have to stay on it until John figures it out?"

"You have around 15 hours before you go into withdrawal again. How do you feel?"

"Terrible," she chuckled. "But, I think you look worse."

"John is angry with me, as he should be. We never should have done this-"

"Did you get evidence?"

He looked surprised at her question and sighed. "Yes. One last piece of the puzzle left. Unfortunately I only discovered the cause of death after our experiment went awry."

"And what is it?"

"Shock followed by acute hypothermia. Once the body is off the drug its temperature plummets and becomes a hypothermic state. Once the body develops a relationship with the drug, it mimics that of an amphibian. The body craves light in order to keep its temperature normalized. Once the drug is removed the body forgets how to stabilize energy and the temperature tanks."

"Wow. That would have been good to know beforehand, huh?" Her tone was light and playful.

"You're still on the brink of death. It was irresponsible and a major oversight on my part."

"I would be dead now. I was going to take it myself. I'm not a child. You may have given me the opportunity, but you weren't the one who created this."

They heard the door open and John appeared looking disheveled. "Hey," he said warmly when he saw she was awake. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I partied way too hard last night." His smile was tight at her response. "Do you have good news for me?"

"Yes," John said, removing items from his bag, not saying a word to Sherlock. "I think I've found a solution but in order for it to work I have to put you under."

"I trust you. Just get this shit out of me."


	15. Chapter 14

A voice was interrupting her sleep, parting the fog of her soporific and jogging her consciousness to the surface. She was drowsy and kept her eyes closed, hoping to drift back into the calm slumber, but the voice was loud and relentless. She opened her eyes, for the second time she was unaware of where she was, a pattern she was hoping to change. The ceiling here was much nicer, she thought. She rubbed the silky cotton between her fingers and the realization was welcome: she was back in Sherlock's bed.

She could hear the voice clearer now, it was arguing, yet one-sided and alone in its battle. It ascended and its octaves fluctuated. It paused for a moment, seeking a response, and when it never came it catapulted back into the onslaught. It was John.

Posy wiggled her toes and fingers, making sure everything was in working order. She rolled her head and slowly pushed herself up to a sitting, then standing position. She tried to walk to the door and felt something catch when she noticed the IV still in her arm. She wanted to pull it out but the thought made her queasy so she took hold of the stand instead and rolled it along with her.

John's voice had died down and now she heard a pair speaking quietly, mumbling. John's tone was as hushed as Sherlock's was inaudible. She turned the corner until she was in view.

"Hey," her voice surprised her. She had hoped for it to be bright and cheery but instead it was raspy and weak. She cleared her throat and tried again, "is it appropriate to say good morning?"

John and Sherlock both whipped their heads in her direction. Sherlock's eyes widened and John's mouth dropped open. "Posy! Hey!" John rushed over first to her and gave her a quick hug. "How are you? Did you sleep well? Did I wake you?"

She shook her head and held out her forearm. "Can you take this out, please?"

"Of course." John slid the IV out of her as she squirmed. He patched her up and led her to a seat.

"So how are you?" John was serious and his gaze was penetrating.

"You tell me, doc." She stretched her shoulders and slumped back into the chair, fatigued. "I guess I feel OK, just very tired. Disoriented."

"Well, we were able to get the drug out. Ah, most of it anyway," John gave a pointed look at Sherlock and then returned his attention to Posy. "There are still trace amounts that will work their way out of your system which may cause some lingering discomfort but nothing life-threatening. Posy," he continued carefully, "we were able to create a _real_ antidote from your results. We know of at least one more case that we will be able to save, and that's all thanks to you."

Posy looked over at Sherlock who had adjusted his gaze at something apparently fascinating in the carpet. She shook her head slightly and looked back at John's concerned face. "So, that's good right? Why is everyone so glum?"

"Ah," John's eyes moved away from hers and she then saw all the creases in his face and the darkness under his eyes. "Well," he stammered, his words losing momentum the second they left his mouth.

She looked at Sherlock who still was not looking at her and saw he also had signs of wear. Her eyes glanced to the window, it looked like evening was settling in.

"How long have I been asleep?" She asked suddenly, understanding flooding her mind.

John took a sharp inhale, but it was Sherlock who answered.

"Five days."

"Five days," she repeated. She looked between the two men, neither of whom elaborated. "Five days?"

"The process, was.. difficult, Posy." She could hear the frustration in John's voice. "You went through quite a bit. All while unconscious. There were moments...we thought..."

She suddenly felt her stomach turn and the bile rise. She got up and clumsily made her way to the bathroom to vomit. It may have been the medications and the lack of food, but she was almost sure it was the realization that she had practically died.

She washed her face and went back to the sitting room. She stood, leaning on a chair for support, and for a while no one said a word. The severity of the past week-_two weeks!_-hung between them.

A gentle tap was heard at the door and they all welcomed the interruption. "Hello?" Mrs. Hudson called as she brought in a tray. "Bringing up a bit of tea," she stopped when she saw Posy and gasped in surprise. She plopped the tray onto a nearby table and ran over to the girl.

"OH you poor dear!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, wrapping her arms around the girl and making a fuss. "You tiny stick of a thing. How are you feeling? We were so worried, I'd come in every day and make up the room while the boys looked you over. Oh," her eyes teared up a bit and she snapped herself up, "you must be hungry. Such a terrible state."

Posy didn't know if it was the chemicals coursing through her body, her hunger, her new found understanding of what could-have-been, or this almost-stranger tearing up at her expense, but before Mrs. Hudson could let go, she clung onto the landlady and began to sob. "Oh, there, there," Mrs. Hudson cooed and patted her back while Posy let the tears stream down her face and onto the woman's cardigan. John was up too, guiding her to the sofa, sitting down beside her and mumbling encouragement. These people, who she hadn't known for quite a month, seemed the closest friends she had in a long time. The only one who sat, unmoving-with his eyes still cast to the floor-was Sherlock.

* * *

The next morning Posy had coffee with John, collected her things and made for home. He had insisted she stay, but after the tumultuous two weeks, Posy knew she needed routine to get back to normal. She left with John as her escort and gave Mrs. Hudson a tight hug for all her kindness. Sherlock, however, had disappeared

That week she went back to being herself. She caught up on client deadlines with her work, but never left the house. As far as she knew Sherlock had yet to apprehend Clay, and until that news broke she was to stay under lock and key.

Her shot wound was healed, a bit tender and pink, but she basked in the freedom of moving about without pain and for that she was grateful.

John came by almost every other day, bringing with him her favorite coffee from the cafe she loved. She appreciated his visits and they often talked about things other than the case. John was seeing a new woman, the one he met on their non-date at the pub. Mrs. Hudson was having a scandalous affair with the butcher, and miraculously her hip hadn't bothered her in days.

"And Sherlock? How's he?" Posy asked innocently as she sipped on the strong coffee.

"Same old Sherlock, you know." There was a bit of edge to John's voice. "At Bart's quite often, won't come home until late. Sits."

"Shouldn't he have this case wrapped up yet?"

"I've asked him about it, but he just says he's waiting. I can't imagine on what. Lestrade is on the verge of a panic attack."

"The way of a genius, I guess."

"More like dick." John retorted and they both shared a laugh.

"Really John, don't hold him responsible for what happened to me." Posy could tell her statement struck a nerve with him. He shook his head.

"People have warned me that he's capable of killing someone and I've always brushed it off. But this whole thing, this was too close, Posy. It wasn't right."

"Hey," Posy put a hand on his shoulder. "He didn't kidnap me, John. We were both kind of stupid, but I don't think Sherlock had any intentions of _killing_ me. To be honest, I was going to take the drug myself, on my own, and then what would have happened?"

"I understand what you're trying to say Posy, but he hasn't even reacted. He continues on like nothing happened. What about next time? Will he want to 'experiment' on how a bullet effects a living brain?" John's tone was escalating and Posy tried to calm him down.

"Let's be serious, OK?" She shook her head and sighed. "I know he's sorry, John. He just has a hard time admitting it."

"Has he told you?" John's brows knitted together in confusion.

"Yes, and, no." Posy sighed but continued, "I heard him say so when he thought I was unconscious I don't want this to ruin your friendship or make you think any less of him, John. We both fucked up. But it worked out, and you even said that now we're able to save someone right? So it couldn't have all been in vain."

John nodded, reluctantly "He hasn't even come see you," he trailed off.

"I'm not losing sleep over it!" Posy laughed it off, but the truth was, she was losing sleep, and she was hurt. Her dreams were bombarded with the tall, dark-haired detective. She was visited by the memory of them sharing a drink in that dingy flat. His nimble fingers caring for her injury. Her thoughts on the impossible man had shifted from intrigue to lust, her mind fighting a losing battle with her heart.

After John left that night she hoped he would smooth things over with Sherlock. She had spent such a small amount of time in their lives and didn't want it to negatively impact them. She had always been a mess and although the recent events were unlike anything she had experienced before, she was excellent at pushing them away and continuing forward.

* * *

It had been a couple days since John's last visit when Posy was curled up on her couch, watching crap telly, a pint of chocolate Haagen Daz on her lap. She was doing a mental inventory of her snack cabinet when she heard her phone ping. She reached across to the coffee table lazily and snatched it.

_Come in 40 minutes. SH_

She stared at the text, a mix of emotions welling up inside her. It had been over a week since she walked out of a pseudo-coma and he hadn't said a word to her. Oh, wait, that's right, he said two: 'Five days.'

Now here he was, texting her out of the blue, with a demand no less! Who did he think he was? She could be out, for all he knew, having fantastic sex with a gorgeous stranger!

She glanced down to her half-eaten pint and her chocolate-stained sweats.

Still! Arrogant ass!

_sorry, do i know you?_

She knew the reply was childish but she sent it anyway. Triumphantly placing the phone beside her, she returned her attention to the television and pretended it didn't exist. When it pinged again she took a lazy scoop of the ice cream, slowly taking a bite and nonchalantly glancing back at the phone. "Oh, a text?" she said aloud.

_Don't delay. 40 minutes. SH_

"What a charmer."

_i don't do booty calls, mr. holmes. _

She laughed aloud as she sent the message away, wishing she could see how flustered he was at the other end of the line. She thought of his audacity, thinking she was about to drop everything after receiving a text from him, when he hadn't so much as texted a "hope you're feeling better."

The minutes ticked by and no ping. She began to get a little anxious. Posy finished the ice cream and then curiosity bloomed. She was about to text him back when her resolve told her to take a shower instead. She wasn't showering to meet him, she was showering because it was the one place she couldn't take her mobile.

The hot water felt great against her skin as she washed off the sticky ice cream. She exhaled and began lathering her hair when she heard the door to the bathroom click open. Panic coursed through her veins as she thought of Clay or the other unknown intruder who had violated her home. She searched the shower for anything that could resemble a weapon and huddled behind the curtain, listening for movement.

"If you don't get out of there immediately, we're going to be late."

Luckily she recognized his drawl before lunging out of the shower wielding a Schick.

"SHERLOCK!" Her voice was a high pitched squeal. "What are you doing! GETTHEFUCKOUTOFMYBATHROOM!"

"I've laid out appropriate clothing on your bed, you have seven minutes."

Posy poked her head out of the curtain to reprimand him when she saw his back was turned to the shower. His head was cocked, awaiting her reply.

"Get out. I'll meet you in the living room in five minutes."

She saw his head bob slightly as he left the bathroom.


	16. Chapter 15

_**For all the wonderful reviews and even critical ones, thank you so much for taking the time to give me feedback on this story. It's been brewing in my mind for a long time and I've got to find SOME way to pass the time until series 3, amirite?**_

_**This chapter can only be led into with: Dun dun...DUUUN!**_

* * *

Sherlock didn't understand why she had to be so difficult. Tonight was _the_ night, after all-the night that they would finally put an end to this case.

He knew he could do it without her, and had originally planned on wrapping it up alone. However, something changed and he felt that it would be a good experience for her. Closure, he thought, was the term people usually use for such things.

He paced her living room, his long legs completing the task of getting to one side almost immediately, the room was incredibly tiny. He could hear her shuffling and mumbling under her breath, once in a while a louder exclamation like "Ass!" floated out to reach his ears. He checked the time, concerned she was going to ruin the drama of the evening, and was about to call out to her when she appeared.

She was not wearing what he had set out, why did she always have to be so defiant? Her hair was soaked and dripping onto the hooded sweatshirt she donned as she hastily attempted to reign it into a bun at the top of her head. She was shooting daggers at him with her eyes. Feeling uncomfortable at that level of animosity, he turned on his heel and walked out the door.

Posy followed suit, turning the lock and catching up to him, the cab was already waiting in the street. He held the door for her as she entered, then he gave the cabbie the address as she continued her stare.

"Has it ever occurred to you," she began, "that people are _busy_ doing things when you decide to call on them?"

"It has," he answered dryly, "but I don't often call on _people_, and when I do they never are."

"I thought you'd get the hint that I wasn't interested. That's supposed to be your specialty, isn't it?"

He finally turned to face her. "I thought you'd be interested in being present at the capture and arrest of Mr. Clay Johnson"

Her eyes widened at his news and he felt confident in his decision. Once the shock wore away he heard her let out a haughty "Hmph," and stare out the window. He smiled.

The rest of the cab ride was had in silence, Sherlock paid the cab driver as they stepped out on to the street she knew better than any other. It was quiet this evening, the cafe and shops having closed, only a few people milling about. He walked down a few blocks with her close to his heels until he saw his rendezvous point. He ducked down an alley until the door came into view. There wasn't any light but the tag reading 'Skin Deep' was still in plain sight.

"Sherlock," Posy asked concerned, "this really isn't a great place to be this late at night."

"Nothing to worry about," he glanced at his watch, "the party should begin in a few minutes."

Almost on cue a small cluster of people came into view, headed by John Watson and the detective she remembered from her break-in, Lestrade. Behind them were a couple officers, all looking a bit miffed and confused.

"Alright, Sherlock," Lestrade began. "Where is this crime that's _about_ to happen?"

"Well," Sherlock smiled to himself, "all in due time, Lestrade. Now if you'll help me..."

Sherlock pointed to a man-hole cover to the left of the door and made to lift it out. John and Lestrade helped him and Posy peered into the opening.

"We're going into the sewer?" She gave Sherlock a confused look that was laced with disgust.

"It would be best if everyone withheld their commentary until the ceremony begins."

Sherlock led the way down the hole and Lestrade followed. John helped Posy down and followed himself. Sherlock called up to the remaining officers.

"Stay out of sight behind the building until you hear my signal. Then call for backup and come down."

The officers looked at Lestrade who shrugged at them before they nodded and went off to their positions.

Unlike Posy had imagined, the hole did not lead to the sewer but to a small cellar that opened up to a door. The door was bolted closed, but the handle was clean, as if someone had been here not that long ago. Sherlock pulled out a key and made easy work of getting it open.

"How did you get a key?" Posy asked.

Sherlock tsked her question away and added, "I said, not until later."

"Well isn't he one for dramatics," she mumbled to John who withheld a laugh.

They went through the doorway and found themselves in a small, shallow crawlspace. It was clearly made solely for function. It was framed off with beams, but the walls were only packed dirt. There was a single light with a hanging chain attached to one of the beams that Sherlock tugged, illuminating the claustrophobic space. Sherlock smiled triumphantly as they stood around metal boxes that were stacked in the center of the room.

"Very well," Sherlock began. "Lestrade. Tonight you will apprehend a murderer, thief, dealer, and forger. You will also return approximately 2 million pounds to the city of London "

"And we're going to do that all in this room?" Lestrade questioned skeptically.

"Yes, yes. You see, years ago you apprehended two criminals. One by the name of Vincent Spaulding, the other William Morris."

"Yeah," Lestrade answered, "drug bust. Found all the chemicals but never found the cash. The loot was estimated to have been over a million pounds."

Sherlock smiled. He took one of the metal boxes that was in the center of the room and cracked it open.

"Holy Mary," John breathed.

The box was filled to the brim with stacks of notes, all neatly tied together.

"Are you telling me, this is Spaulding's loot?" Lestrade asked in amazement.

"Most of it, yes." Sherlock closed the box and motioned to the others. "Some of it is gone, obviously. But Let me continue." Sherlock glanced at his watch and cleared his throat.

"At that time Vincent Spaulding and William Morris ran a quaint drug operation throughout London and they did tremendously. Spaulding, the businessman, worked with Morris, his chemist, and laced drugs to make them more effective and addictive. Their headquarters was right down the road. Often their negotiations would spread to the location above us at the tattoo parlor, which was owned by Spaulding's uncle."

"That's right," Lestrade agreed. "We busted them there together. Been keeping an eye on that establishment since then, but they always turn up clean."

"Of course they do," Sherlock replied. "When Spaulding and Morris knew they were to be caught, Spaulding hid the loot with his uncle here in this bunker, giving him a percentage of it for his trouble. He did not feel the need to let Morris know about this arrangement."

"Well, if that's the case, why keep the shop open?" John interrupted.

"Good question John, just getting to it." Sherlock took another look at his watch and continued, "After the arrest, it became common knowledge on the street that Spaulding's uncle was somewhat associated with the crime. He could not sell the shop, since it was sitting above the treasure, and he could not close the shop, since it would be too dangerous to leave it unattended.

"Instead, he left it open, albeit not necessarily running. One girl, who would drug test clean at the desk was all he needed to keep both the criminals and police at bay."

"Sherlock, what are you saying? One young girl would prevent other criminals from looting the place?" This time it was Lestrade who interrupted.

"Not just any girl. A red-headed girl. Spaulding is also the head of a crime syndicate in this district and he was known to have a companion by the name of Jessica with flaming red hair. To act in any way against her would result in a war. A sort of criminal code of conduct. I'm sure the true Jessica has left quite some time ago, but since most of Spaulding's rivals never quite saw, and only heard, of her appearance, replacements work just as well."

"But Clay?" Persephone spoke, trying to piece together the complex puzzle. "How is Clay involved then?"

"Ah," Sherlock smiled, resembling a child who was about to indulge in Christmas. "Mr. Clay Johnson is a forgery. His real name is William Morris, colleague of our Mr. Spaulding and there is no wrath like a criminal chemist scorned. He was released from gaol for good behavior, gave himself a new identity and went in search of the fortune his colleague stole from him. Being quite clever, he worked out the location of the booty, but was unable to access it without alerting Spaulding's caretakers.

"Only he worked out a way, and would have gotten away with it, I will admit, if it weren't for his being in such a hurry." Sherlock began pacing in excitement. "You see," his arms motioning about him as he spoke, "our Mr. Johnson worked out that the storage facility of the tattoo shop and this bunker were parallel to each other, earth separating them. Since he could not go in through the front, he decided to go in through the back. He worked out that while the girl sat at reception, Spaulding's uncle was away. That leaves him only one remarkably easy target to subdue. He introduces himself as the supplier, knows enough about Spaulding to convince the woman, and then befriends her. Over a short period of time she gets bored and he introduces the perfect pass-time, one that will give him all the time he needs to do the loud, messy work—and also keep her employer unaware of her addiction."

Sherlock clapped his hands together in glee and checked his watch again. "Oh!" He exclaimed, waving them towards a corner of the room. "Quiet! Quiet now, our guest of honor has arrived!"

Everyone moved to the area where Sherlock directed, cramming together with puzzled looks on their faces. Sherlock hushed them and turned off the light. "John," Sherlock whispered, "hand me my revolver."

After a few beats of feeling uneasy in the dark cavern, scraping was heard along the opposite wall. Suddenly the earth could be heard cracking open, flaking and splattering into the cavern, light seeping in between the shards. A grunt was heard and someone hoisted themselves into the cavern. Before he had a chance to raise the flashlight and scope his bounty, Sherlock pressed the gun to his temple.

"I thought we would see each other again, Mr. Morris."

"What the...how?" William sputtered in surprise, Lestrade removing the handcuffs from his pocket and approaching the criminal.

Posy stayed glued to the wall behind her, clutching at John for safety.

"I congratulate you, Mr. Morris, on a job well done. However, as talented as you are, you let your greed come before your craftsmanship."

"You fucking lunatic!" William spat at him as realization took a hold. Lestrade slapped the cuffs behind his back. "How did ya get in here? What the fuck?"

"Once I realized what you were up to, I paid a visit to your good friend and let him know of your intentions. It took him a bit of convincing, but once he realized that his money was in jeopardy he did what any other spineless criminal would do: He made certain that if he wasn't to inherit it, than no one else would. He produced a key, and here we are."

"That bastard! You think I'm bad, huh? I just want my money! You can't take my money!"

"Oh, well, of course we can. Your greed not only led you to your downfall but also to the demise of a few young ladies you needed to keep _occupied_ as you dug through the storage room and out here to the other side. Simple enough, you concocted a lovely sedative that would keep them unbeknownst of your activity while still technically awake. Beautiful formula, I might add, except for one thing. After a while, the drug kills them. But what difference is it to you? The uncle will keep replacing them, and you continue to sedate them, and it is _untraceable_ after all."

William's face was contorted with fury. "Unfortunately," Sherlock continued, "letting them die was more of just of an oversight on your part. It was sloppy. Although you believed them to be useless, they were actually what held this entire web together. The chain you constructed was, as they say, only as strong as the weakest link."

"Fucking whores," William spat out and resisted the cuffs he was in. Lestrade began to lead him out of the bunker when he walked past Posy and saw her staring back at him.

"Another whore," he smiled at her and a shiver worked its way through her spine. "Time to die, Posy," he sang out in a chilling tone, "another worthless bitch to join the oth-"

_Bang_.

William howled in pain and fell onto his knees, bringing Lestrade down with him. Posy snapped her attention to Sherlock, the hand that held the gun resting by his side, an indifferent look on his face.

"SHERLOCK!" Lestrade and John called out in unison, both staring at the captive who was bleeding from his right knee.

"My apologies. The weapon slipped. Although I don't think there was too much harm done."

Posy's eyes met his and he gave her a small, almost unnoticeable, smile. John assisted Lestrade in carrying out the injured man as he ranted in protest, the police cars waiting for his arrival. Once he was taken away, more officers went into the bunker and began removing the boxes of money, loading up vehicles. John joined Posy and Sherlock who were standing off behind the building, ready to leave the events of the night behind them.

"Right," John said as he approached them. "That was brilliant, as always. Sherlock how did you know he was going to strike tonight?"

Sherlock almost yawned in boredom. "Elementary, John. I simply calculated how far he need to tunnel and how long it would take for him to do so based on his estimated strength and skill. I had to make certain that we would catch him in the act or his arrest may have been prohibited, putting Persephone in greater danger. Luckily, everything went according to plan. Well, I say luck..."

"Obviously, yeah. _Elementary_, Watson. Why bother asking?" Posy playfully mocked his tone and John laughed. Sherlock's expression almost looked...hurt.

"Oh, chin up, you know you're brilliant," Posy said to him cheerfully. "I'd like to personally thank you for your bravery and intellect by treating us all to a drink!"

"I don't-"

"Aw, come on, Sherlock," John insisted. "But Posy, you don't have to treat us, it was Sherlock's obligation."

"Don't worry about it," she replied slyly and slipped a hand into her sweatshirt pocket. She pulled out a neatly tied stack of bills and continued wryly. "Let's say this one's on Clay."

* * *

_**A fist-bump to anyone who guesses the original adventure this story was based on? It was pretty obvious, but I decided to take some liberties and switch a few names around**__. __**Only a couple chapters lef**__t! _


	17. Chapter 16

They celebrated Sherlock's genius at the pub nearest to Baker Street, Posy and John drinking more than they should, and Sherlock surprisingly participating in the merriment. When they returned to 221B, John bid them goodnight and retired to his room. Sherlock and Posy collapsed onto the couch. Sherlock, stoic as always, and Posy attempting to sober herself up enough to get back home.

"You must think I'm such a mess!" She raved, Sherlock shushed her outburst and she lowered her voice considerably.

"When I'm with you I'm either drunk, drugged, or nearly dead." She began to laugh a bit and corrected herself. "Nah, that's a lie. I guess I'm either drunk, drugged, or nearly dead in general."

"You live passionately. You could do much worse," he replied, his tone only slightly giving away that he had a few shots. One Posy made him take with her. The other three were all John's fault.

"At the risk of sounding like a complete _girl_," she slurred, "why didn't you call?"

"I texted. You claimed it was unwelcome." Sherlock responded.

"No, you. Ugh. No." She shook her head and shoved his shoulder. Ordinarily the action would have repulsed him but he simply let himself sink into the couch.

"After I left! After I left here...after almost _dying_. Why didn't you call me?"

"I didn't have a reason to."

"Oh. Right. Obviously." Posy inhaled dramatically and blew the air out in a defeated sigh.

"You seem upset with me." Sherlock was excellent at pointing out the obvious.

"Yes, but not you really. Upset with me. Upset with this-" she pointed at her forehead, "and this." Posy dragged her finger down until it rested over her chest and then quickly let it fall onto the seat beside her.

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly as he understood what she was implying. "Persephone," he began.

"Oi?"

"Persephone, I-"

"Eye of the tiger?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in confusion and he began again. "I don't think-"

"Aw. Damn."

"What is it now?" He began to get irritated. She smiled innocently.

"I like it when you say it."

Sherlock made to continue but stopped and sighed heavily instead. He then laughed at her childishness and tried one last time to speak.

"Persephone," he paused, feeling his chest swell as she reveled in the simple act of him saying her name, "I don't believe you want to have this conversation now, when you're like this."

"Oh, honey, every time I have this conversation I'm like this."

He did not know how to respond, and so she helped him. "Don't worry," she stood up and brushed herself off. He remained seated, gauging her reaction.

"I'm off, Sher-lock Holmes. I have to say it was an interesting experience. I know who to call when my cat goes missing."

"You don't have a cat."

She narrowed her eyes at him and lifted her chin. "You are good." A smile broke out on her face as she continued. "I'd say until next time but I know I won't be seeing you again. So, instead..." Posy took her right hand and extended it, seeking Sherlock's for a handshake. He stood up, noticing for the first time how short she was, and clasped her hand. Gripping tighter, she jerked him forward, stretching from her toes, and pressed her lips over his. He could taste the alcohol in her breath and found that it tasted sweet. Instead of pulling away, he kept his eyes open, observing how she closed hers, and before he realized that he should resist she had ended it. She dropped his hand, gave him a quick nod and smile-although why did her eyes look so sad?-and disappeared out the door and down the stairs.

Sherlock stood, rooted to the spot, thinking. Part of him was saying to follow her, but he categorized that as basic instinct and pushed it aside. The next thought was that she was simply intoxicated and was unaware of her actions. Perhaps it was a response to relief, or joy? She was overstimulated, with the events of the evening, and Sherlock rationalized that if John took his place, the probability was in favor of her reaction being the same, just with him.

He reached up and brought a finger to his lips. They were still moist from her sloppy kiss. The taste of her lingered. There was only one thing he could do.

* * *

"John?" Sherlock knocked on the door and heard stirring. The door creaked open with a less than friendly John on the other side. Sherlock walked in.

"Sherlock? It's three in the bloody morning. What is it?"

"Persephone left a moment ago."

"Right. Well, thank you for the update, good night."

"She kissed me."

At this, John turned to face his friend. "She did what?"

"She went to leave, talked funny things, and then she kissed me and left."

"Congratulations, Sherlock. Is this the first time a woman's done this to you?"

"John!" Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. "Of course not. But I don't know what it means. Of course, I'm sure it doesn't mean anything at all. Is it common for that to occur?"

John sat at the edge of his bed, staring up at Sherlock in quiet disbelief. "Is it common for a woman to kiss a man after having a gallon of alcohol? Yes, Sherlock, it is."

"You're implying then that her action was simply due to her intoxication, and nothing more?"

John sighed. "I don't know, Sherlock. But you know Posy, she's erratic. Maybe she just meant it as a goodbye, or maybe she's madly in love with you. You'll just have to talk to her about it when she's not tanked."

"Right, of course. I apologize for waking you, have a good night, John."

"Sherlock?" John tilted his head as Sherlock stopped before exiting. "Why do you care? Do you want it to mean something?"

There was a pause and John expected a sarcastic retort from his confusing friend. Instead, Sherlock stiffened slightly, and walked back out the door.

* * *

Posy stretched the newspaper clipping into place, being careful not to rub off the ink or tear the fragile paper as the adhesive set. It wasn't often that she saved a snippet of the news, but after the experience she went through, she found it to be somewhat of a memento. 'DETECTIVE HOLMES SOLVES SERIAL MURDER DRUG RING' was the blazing text at the top of the page, with a photo of the detective surrounded by the criminal and his victims. A small smile played at her lips at the sight of his profile and she closed the scrapbook, slipping it into her large leather tote. She reclined in the soft chair and grasped her tea, letting herself drown in the familiar sounds of music and chatter of her favorite cafe.

It had been over a week since the last time she saw him. She was back to normal, no more injuries or withdrawal or life-threatening adventures. Clay-or rather William-was behind bars awaiting trial, along with his dimwitted accomplice, the man who broke into her house and shot her.

Everything slipped back into routine, which prompted her decision to consider a change. She pushed the scissors off the paper and held it open as she sunk into the cushy chair. No more Sherlock Holmes. His mysterious cheekbones were just another part of this big story she knew she'd be telling for years to come. She pursed her lips at the thought of the night she left his flat, the impulsive and drunken kiss she planted before she left. She felt both venerated and slightly embarrassed. That wasn't how she'd hoped to snog the sexy detective, but as she saw her time with him slip away she knew she couldn't leave him completely empty-handed.

It was a terrible kiss, as far as kisses go, but she still felt the fullness of his lips under hers and his smell, the same delicious smell of his bed sheets. It was so alluring and masculine and comforting. It was simultaneously the worst and sexiest kiss she'd ever had, she thought, tea almost slipping out of the cup in her hand.

She caught herself in time and placed the tea back on the table, bringing her attention back to the paper. Flipping through the stories she'd never read, she made her way to the classifieds. She took a pen from behind her ear and nibbled on the tip as she scanned the listings.

"I wouldn't have pegged you as one that reads the paper."

Before her mind had any say in the matter, her body betrayed her and jumped up at the sound of his voice. Her eyes followed, trailing from the polished toe of his oxfords to the pin on his lapel before resting on the gorgeous blue-green of his eyes.

"I apologize if I've frightened you."

"Oh no. Nope, no, no," she wasn't expecting this and had no way to react. She stared at him and he stared back, arching his brow in expectation.

"Oh, sit. Obviously, sit." She pointed to the chair across from her and pushed her baggage to the side. She took a deep breath and addressed him calmly. "Sherlock. Hi. What are you doing here?"

He removed his coat and took the seat. Was he planning on staying?

"On my way to meet Lestrade." Not staying, she thought, just being polite. "I came by for coffee, John forgot to pick up some for the flat."

"Right, well, nice. Good to see you." She couldn't understand why she was so nervous, but her brain was unable to form full sentences.

He looked at her suspiciously and then glanced at the paper. Shit.

"You're looking for a new flat?"

She sighed and put the paper down. "Yes. No use trying to keep it private in front of _you_."

"You don't need a flat, you have your house." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, placing his coffee on the table as well.

"Yeah, well. With everything that happened, you know. I figured the neighborhood wasn't great and I don't need friends of Clay-erm-_William_ to come scouting about. So you know. New beginnings!" She smiled, but Sherlock only frowned slightly.

"Has someone threatened you?"

"No! Oh no, no. I'm not even really serious, just taking a look. Maybe looking to get a flatmate or something. It's nice how you and John get on, kind of inspired me."

"Well I wish you the best of luck in your search," Sherlock replied.

"Yeah, thanks. If you hear anything, give me a call." Posy thought of what she said and back-tracked. "I don't mean _call me_. You know, just an expression. I would actually prefer it if you didn't-you know..call."

"Very well."

They looked at each other for a beat, the awkward silence drowning out the energy of the cafe. Sherlock stood first, putting his coat back on. "Must be going," he muttered.

"Right! Lestrade! Hope it's not anything too terrible. Although," she mused, "if they're calling you in then it must be, I guess."

"Good day, Persephone."

"Bye, Sherlock."

She watched him leave, his long coat billowing behind him. She compared him to everyone else in the cafe, in this environment he almost looked otherworldly. She sighed and slumped onto the table, playing with the corner of the paper absentmindedly when her eyes rested on the steaming coffee left forgotten on the table.


	18. Chapter 17

**And here it is. This is the last chapter.**

**This story has been a joy to write and I am so grateful for you taking the time to finish it up with me. Before you get to it, I just wanted to let you know that this is the first fic I've written and the sensation is kind of addicting. So is your very generous feedback and readership. So thanks. A lot.**

* * *

It happened again, and then again, and then a pattern began to form. It wasn't obvious at first, but then Posy began to make the connections. Tuesday and Thursday. Then Monday and Wednesday. Then Friday. The week following went back to Tuesday and Thursday.

He hadn't forgot his coffee again, but the days he appeared always came with an excuse. Going to see Lestrade; on his way back from Bart's; getting away from Mrs. Hudson; John needed the flat for a date. The cafe was miles away from Baker Street, with dozens more scattered between, yet he would show up at this one on those specific days. Sometimes he wouldn't come to the table, he'd simply nod and take off again. Other times he'd already be there when she arrived, forcing her hand to approach him instead.

After a few weeks, she decided to push back. He was there, at her usual table, fingers steepled below his chin. He was deep in thought, coffee steaming beside him. She didn't know if he saw her or not, but sat directly in front of him, throwing down her bags and he blinked, waking out of his mind-trance and dropping his hands to the table.

"Why do you come here?" She asked, before she lost her nerve. The corners of his mouth frowned slightly.

"Hello to you too, Miss Taylor." He took a sip of his coffee and she shook her head at him.

"You never came here before."

"That's impossible for you to know. As a matter of fact, I helped the owner of this shop with a problem a few years ago and have frequented ever since."

"I would have noticed you."

"Hardly probable. People don't usually remember strangers in a place like this unless they've been previously acquainted."

"I know I would have noticed you," she said firmly, causing his brow to arch at her. She arched her brow back and he changed the subject.

"You are a freelance designer, correct? Contract basis?"

She sighed in defeat and smiled. "Yes, sir, I am."

"Well, I believe I may be in need of your services. You see, my website-"

"Nope."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock almost looked offended.

"No, thank you. I will not take on a project for you, Mr. Holmes."

"I don't understand, you clearly need the money."

At this, Posy's eyes widened. "I'm sorry?"

"You know _I know_ that you're looking for a new flat because of money. It's nothing to be self-conscious about. Now, I guarantee you I pay quite handsomely for work-"

"Wow. It's remarkable how you can such a bloody genius and simultaneously so ridiculously unaware. No, Sherlock, I am not broke. Although you may find it difficult to believe, I actually do quite well for myself, thank you very much."

"If that's true, then why are you looking to move?"

"I told you I was only _thinking_ about it, and mostly because I'd like to find a place that's a bit bigger so that I could have a flatmate."

"That can't be right. You've lived on your own for years, why form an attachment with someone else when you don't have to?"

Posy smiled and kept shaking her head. "That's it, isn't it? You seriously can't understand. Again, why do you keep coming here Sherlock?"

Sherlock took a moment to respond, gingerly taking a sip of his coffee and placing the cup back down. "Would you prefer I didn't?"

"If I did, would you stop coming?"

"If that was your wish."

Posy laughed in frustration. "It would be that easy wouldn't it? You would stop coming because I said so. Except that doesn't answer my question."

Posy noticed Sherlock's demeanor change from indifferent to slightly alarmed and almost-angry? She could have dropped it but something within her kept her going. "You have no obligation to me Sherlock. The case is over. We all went back to our lives, but you're the one coming here and acting like it's all just some major coincidence. I just want to know. Why?"

"Why do you have to make everything so difficult!?" Sherlock exploded, his eyes like slits. She had never seen him like this. Before she could respond, he decided to answer himself. "Why do you take the smallest, most menial things and build them up into something more? Are you aware that you complicate everything? You are exceedingly talented in mucking up simple situations. You couldn't keep walking the first day we came here, could you? No, you had to get involved. And then you got yourself attacked and shot, dragging us back into this mess you call a life. You didn't even THINK about checking the door, you have this functioning mind and you refuse to use it!"

His voice was no louder than a whisper but every word was crystal clear. She felt pressure begin to build within her and her eyes began to burn with the promise of tears. She inhaled, ready to defend herself, but he continued before she had a chance.

"And then you get involved with your _ex_," he spat the word as if it was poisoned. "Throw yourself into his business without understanding the severity of it. You allow someone you _hardly know_ to take you away under the notion that maybe _some_ good will come of it and nearly get yourself killed!" Posy knew that he was referring to the experiment they ran themselves. "And when you walk away unscathed, as you somehow _always_ manage to do, you try to create some greater meaning and sentiment around what happened. You ask me why? Well, _why_ is it that now, during something as simple as coffee, you are trying to fabricate something deeper? This, Persephone, is someone getting a hot drink and indulging in polite conversation. Why do you _always_ have to build your ridiculous fantasies around reality? The reason _why_ I come here is irrelevant. It is objective. I prefer their formula for coffee. Why can't your simple, diluted mind just accept my company and leave it at that?"

She was unable to answer since all her strength was focused on preventing the drops of water from leaking out of her eyes. She could feel her lower lip tremble, and the more she tried to steady it, the more aggressively it shook.

She saw the flash of anger in his eyes subside into something resembling regret. He noticed her tears before they fell, it was useless to try and stop them. She nodded, collected her things and pushed away from the table. His breath hitched as he collected the air to pronounce her name but she interrupted him.

"This is me...making it simple." It was painstaking to try and keep her voice level, the result was something that was barely audible. She held his gaze for just a second, and as she stepped out of the cafe the tears found their way to the pavement.

* * *

Posy stopped going to her cafe. Instead, she took the tube to a small place on the other side of the city. It wasn't as good, but she refused to go back. After their conversation at the cafe she received texts from John, and although riddled with guilt, she left them unanswered. She felt that for the time being it was best if she left all of Baker Street behind her.

_He _never texted. She wondered if he continued to go to the coffee shop but scolded herself for even caring. She convinced herself he really went only for the coffee.

After a while at the new shop she made a friend with the barista, a nice guy named Jim. He'd often ask her out for a drink, anything but coffee or tea, and she'd refuse. Part of her felt like she was betraying Sherlock, and when she realized this, she became furious. The next time Jim asked her for a drink, she said yes.

He was exceptionally polite and well-spoken, but as she swirled the wine in her glass, she found herself taking a tally between him and Sherlock. Something in his eyes was striking, but everything else fell flat. Not as handsome; not as tall; not as captivating; not as infuriating. She'd wrapped up the evening early and gave Jim a peck on the cheek, feeling lonelier than before.

Posy slipped the key into the deadbolt and walked into the dark house. She felt around in the dark for her lamp and switched it on. The soft light flooded the room as she took off her coat and leaned against the door. Tonight was going to end with ice cream.

She sighed and made her way to her bedroom when she saw the silhouette from the corner of her eye. It was so familiar it didn't even frighten her. She spoke without turning to face him. "Hello, Sherlock."

He didn't bother to get up from her chair and replied, "Didn't go well, I take it?"

She finally turned and plopped onto the sofa beside his chair, making every effort to show him just how exasperated she was that he was here.

"What are you talking about?"

"Your date," he said simply. "You're back before 10 so I assume it wasn't very good."

She was going to protest but couldn't find the point in it. "No, it wasn't. Actually, I was about to get myself some ice cream. Do you want any?"

"Yes."

"Didn't think s-wait, what?" She turned to him in surprise.

"I would love some ice cream, except you didn't buy any."

"Oh. Crap."

"But I did."

Posy looked at him in surprise. Was this a peace offering?

"OK, well, thanks. I'll go get some then."

She disappeared into the kitchen and came back with the carton and two spoons. She dropped the icy box onto the end table and handed Sherlock his spoon. He eyed it warily as she dug in.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" Posy asked between spoonfuls of the sinful dessert. "Oh wait, am I not allowed to ask?"

"I came to apologize," Sherlock began, not touching the ice cream, "for my behavior at the cafe."

"You don't have to apologize."

"In any case," he continued, "I was uncouth and you did not deserve it."

"Sherlock, it's fine. It's what you do. Since when do you apologize for it?"

"Since it affects someone who's opinion I hold in high regard."

Posy continued to shovel the ice cream into her mouth, trying to keep his words from manipulating her mind into thinking he was saying something he wasn't.

"Well, fine then. No big deal."

"Do you fancy him?"

She eyed him and tapped his spoon with her own. "I don't do girl talk unless both parties are involved."

He looked into the carton and collected some of the ice cream on his spoon.

"He's OK." She mumbled through a mouthful. "He's very vanilla."

"And that is a bad thing?" Sherlock asked, slipping his spoon back into the carton.

"It's unexciting. I'm more the mocha-chunk type."

"Will you be seeing him again?"

"Why are you asking? Oh, my God. Is he a serial killer or something?" Posy asked with genuine concern. "Are you here because he's a serial killer?"

Sherlock looked confused and took her spoon. "Hey!" she protested. He collected the carton, walked it back into the freezer and came back with two tumblers filled with a finger of amaretto in each. He sat back down and handed her the tumbler.

"What is this? My...ice cream?"

"No, Persephone, he is not a serial killer- not to my knowledge, anyway." Sherlock added. "You are much more talkative with a drink than ice cream."

"Is that so?" She scoffed at his audacity. "You're an enabler to my very bad habit."

"As are you."

She was genuinely confused. "I feel like we're talking in circles here."

"Very good observation, Miss Taylor. Let's get right to the point." Sherlock took a sip of the liquid and put the tumbler down. He looked at her intently and she became very self-conscious.

"Persephone, I would prefer it if you didn't see Jim anymore."

"What?" She looked at the tumbler and swished around the liquid, wondering if the drink was making her hear things.

"I know I have no right to demand that of you, and you probably won't listen. But," Sherlock sighed, searching for the words. Posy had the feeling her brain had completely stopped working.

"When I first met John, I was convinced I didn't have any _friends_," Sherlock began, speaking slowly and emphatically. "Over time, I was proven otherwise. I did not feel I was capable of friendship, but John changed that. Although, I'd never admit it to his face."

"OK," Posy murmured.

"I am married to my work, Persephone. I don't have relationships. I don't have the desire or patience for anniversaries or dates or flowers and chocolates. I've pushed all of that so far out of my mind that I have no idea how to approach anything remotely resembling a relationship."

"And you're telling me this, because...?" Posy emptied the contents of the tumbler.

"Because you were right to question my intention that day. I don't care about the coffee. I went there to see you."

Posy kept opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of water.

"I find myself wondering how you are, and remembering what you like. I'm upset that Morris' case was resolved so quickly, because that gave me an excuse to be in your life-"

"My _mess_ of a life," she whispered, repeating his words.

"Your life...that's made a mess of me." Sherlock admitted. "I wanted you to work for me for as another excuse, and now I'm out of excuses, but I still want to see you. And that is a problem for me, because most people would think that I am seeking a relationship but...I don't _do_ relationships, Persephone. I don't do...whatever _this_ is."

"You said there wasn't any _this_," she moved her hands between the both of them.

"I lied." Sherlock responded simply. "It's easier if there isn't. I've always kept things simple, being alone is a way to protect myself."

"And what about the other person? Who protects them?"

"I'm not denying that I'm selfish. But I also know that you feel something, too."

"What do you want, Sherlock?" She was staring at him, unsure of what was happening or where this was going to go.

"I don't know," he said, frustrated at himself. "I only know what I _don't_ want."

"OK, well, what _don't_ you want then?"

"I don't want you to see Jim, or find a flatmate, or move. I don't want you to frequent another cafe."

"So what then? Where does that leave me?"

"I don't know. I guess what I'm trying to say is...I want to try something...more...with you."

She inhaled sharply at his admission, knowing full well the strength of character he needed to communicate that thought to her.

"More?" Her question was reverential.

"More than _this_."

She saw the opportunity so clearly it practically had glowing lights and fireworks that exploded over a blazing "DO IT NOW!" She smiled a real, genuine smile at her luck. That this man, who was so strange and cold and yet so wildly complex, wanted more of _this_ with someone like _her_. It was now or never, she thought, and leaned into him slowly.

"Prove it."

He looked slightly confused until his mind connected the dots and he smirked. "As you wish," he muttered in that velvet voice, drawing her closer to him. He reached out, placed a hand on her freckled cheek and let it slide slowly to her chin. He leaned in, bringing his face inches from hers, and noticed how her eyes fluttered closed. Once again he left his open, savoring the details of her face, before closing the gap between them.

What their first kiss held in sloppiness, this one made up for in tenderness. It was short, and when Sherlock pulled away he noticed that Posy stayed in place, eyes still closed, breathing placid.

"You kiss quite well for a tin-man," she muttered, slowly allowing herself to return to reality.

"I'm sure I can get better," he said jokingly, assessing the girl before him, wondering how she managed to worm her way into his mind palace and beyond. "You'll make me better, my ridiculous girl."

* * *

**So, there you go. A happy ending. But after Reichenbach, a happy ending was something I desperately needed.**

**Anyway, I wanted to know if you would like to see more Sherlock and Posy? I've got some ideas about a series of one-shots that follows them through the ups & downs of their relationship. I still have a lot of story left between these two, but before committing I want to know what you think! Thanks again!**


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